In Hatred we Join Hands
by BanishedOne
Summary: They say the sword hates all of the goddess's people. They also say that one day the sword's seemingly endless well of hatred will dry up, and at that time, it will only have enough strength left to hate itself. /GhiraLink /DARK
1. Chapter 1

Hello, members of the Legend of Zelda fandom. Allow me to introduce myself; I am BanishedOne. As this is my first LoZ fanfiction, I'm aware that most of you probably are unfamiliar with all of my other works, so let me warn you ahead of time..

If you're easily troubled by extreme reading material, (or you have a heart problem), I might advise that you skip over my fanfiction. ^-^

Otherwise, enjoy.

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/Prologue/

::

_Amidst the war, the goddess Hylia summoned the most skillful swordmaker in her kingdom. She offered him her finest blessed steel, a material that was unrivaled in strength, and she commanded the swordmaker to follow her instructions without fail._

_'Take this steel, and use all but a quarter of what I've given you. From it, forge a large, heavy sword. This sword is to be magnificent to behold, so much so that it can never be sheathed. This sword must be the finest weapon you've ever crafted.'_

_The swordmaker, despite his haste to aid the goddess, placed his greatest care and effort into crafting the sword that the Goddess had requested, following her orders precisely. It took him many weeks of effort, continuously melting and folding the blessed steel, then hammering it down, and sculpting its magnificent form. In the end, he returned to the goddess with the final product, the incredible fruit of his labor. _

_The goddess gratefully took the sword from her deciple. She then used her power to breathe life into the creation, forging a spirit to dwell within the weapon. This holy creature was sculpted as perfectly as the sword itself, a being that was without flaw._

_The spirit of this sword was an androgynous beauty, unsuffered by the extremes of true masculinity or femininity. It was able to feel the same realms of emotion as human beings, yet it was blessed with a strong enough reserve and logic to view its own emotion, as if through a pane of glass, and make clear, concise decisions based on reason as well as compassion, and with the intelligent spark that was creativity._

_And as pleased as the goddess was with this result, instead of thanking the swordmaker for his perfect obedience, and his wonderful work, she levied unto him a most tedious command. 'Now that you've created a perfect sword, and the finest work you can muster to the best of your ability, I wish for you to use the remaining steel I gave to you, and now forge a better blade.'_

_Despite his exhaustion from the dedication he put into creating the last blade the goddess requested, the swordmaker set to work in creating yet another perfect sword, focusing his skills, knowing now that he was meant to create something even greater than what he believed was his finest work. _

_He used the remaining steel, though he hadn't nearly as much to work with this time. Because of this, the swordmaker created a long blade that was sturdy, and powerful, yet lighter to wield than its appearance suggested. He sharpened it with such great care that the end result frightened him, and he wished more than anything to destroy his own creation. He knew that if this sword ever fell into the wrong hands, the otherworldly quality of this blade could possibly cut that which was immortal; perhaps even Hylia, herself._

_Nervously, the swordmaker journeyed to present this new sword to the goddess. He warned her, as well, of his fears concerning this blade, cautioning her as to who she should allow to ever take hold of this sword._

_The goddess thanked her deciple kindly, but reassured him that she knew exactly what she was doing, and that she was grateful to him for his continued service, and meticulous work. She then brought forth the first sword the swordmaker created for her, and summoned the spirit from within._

_To be without doubt, the goddess ascertained as to whether the swordmaker truly believed that the second sword he made was indeed more powerful, and more perfect than the first. At the moment he assured the goddess that the second sword could best the first, the goddess took the second sword in hand, blessing the magnificent blade with her light at just the simplest touch, and she used the holy blade to slice in half the spirit she had created, which dwelled inside the first sword._

_As the spirit was cut into two separate pieces, it melded itself into two beings, the minor imperfection now staining one male, while sculpting the other a more gentle female. With intent, the goddess made certain to cut free all of the darker traits she had imbued into her creation, all of the imperfections that could be found in human beings, and could poison a pure spirit and twist it into something malevolent. These traits were patched with no particular care for detail into the male half of the spirit, while everything else was allowed to remain within the female half of the spirit._

_When at last the goddess finished with this task, she beckoned the female spirit into the sword that glowed with blessed light in her hand. As for the first sword, it was flung without so much as a single touch into the chest of the male spirit, and this is where it was sheathed._

_The male spirit, true to the traits the goddess had used to create him, cursed the goddess as his pride was offended, knowing that his blade was meant to be a magnificent beauty that was too perfect to ever be hidden in any kind of sheath. _

_And, upon that one single curse, the male spirit was sharply banished from the goddess's kingdom, and sent to dwell among mortal creatures._

_In horror, the swordmaker bid the goddess to tell him why she had cast off such a powerful weapon, fearing that evil could come to possess the blade, and that it would be used against her. Again, in her wisdom, she reassured the swordmaker that she was aware of the gravity of her own actions._

_Intentionally, she had asked her disciple to create a sword that was too perfect for any creature to turn down. It was a sword that mortals and demons would all long to possess, driving them mad with their own yearning, yet it was much too heavy for all but the very strongest arm. As well, the spirit within the blade was a pitiful patchwork of mankind's most horrid, violent traits, barely able to hold together or control himself in his state of incompletion. The gnarled persona of this wretched creature surely would be impossible for any to control, leading hapless victims to tormented fates, save for someone far darker, and more ominous._

_The swordmaker never came to understand the goddess's intent, even as she explained it._

_She placed a perfect weapon, like bait, on land, where her vile enemy, Demise, was sure to lust after it. He would believe that this blade had possibly been lost, by mistake, and that he had obtained the ultimate weapon, which he could use to finally rule all. However, the goddess had already seen to the creation of a better weapon, one that would act as the weakness to the first, which Demise was completely unaware of. In this way, the Goddess cleverly set her enemy up for failure._

_Meanwhile, the first sword spirit, as he found himself gracelessly cast to realm of mortals, he patiently waited to come into contact with any creature that could aid him in obtaining vengeance. He simmered and seethed in his resent, bitterly aware that he was an imperfect, incomplete creation, given life only to be cruelly discarded._

_This shrouded his spirit in the inescapable, suffocating clutches of hatred, slowly defiling him from the inside, out._

:: ::

The fight was over. The struggle was lost. He could see it, and he could hear it, despite his own waning strength. He trembled within the metallic clutches of the blade that housed him, and in Demise's dying grasp, but this tremble was not in fear; actually, he would likely never come to know what had caused his stir, knowing that he, himself, often branched one uncontrollable emotion into another and another, until he couldn't even recall the thought that was the original spark of this process.

There was too much thought, and too much emotion to contain, let alone sort into anything comprehensive. He didn't stick around to ponder. Instead, he teleported himself away. There was no reason for him to stay by his master's side, especially when his master was already down on his knees.

Amidst the teleportation, he reconfigured, sheathing his blade within himself again, so to walk on his own two legs. Upon his weakened legs he landed, finding that his body was especially heavy, and difficult to keep upright. If anything, he was still standing with the strength that his pride, alone, offered. Still, pride would only carry him so far.

It hurt to move, but he managed to cross his arms over the gaping wound in his chest, protecting his one truly weak area, though it was already thoroughly gouged, and weeping the metallic crimson fluid that was his lifeblood. If not for the agonizing feeling that was surging, like electricity, through every fiber of his being, he might consider worrying about what a mess he was making of himself; he preferred to maintain concentration on things like breathing, however.

His blurred optics reflected the light before him as he stared into the portal, the gate of time, prepared to venture back through it, as Demise was now dead, no matter what time he bothered himself with surviving in. The endless vortex of blue rings shined in his eyes, as if they were two, coal-black mirrors, but he did not yet step through.

A quiet jingle met his ears, the shifting of fabric, the stretching of muscles; he glanced over his shoulder in remembrance. 'Oh right,' he was thinking. That damnable, goddess-serving wench was still here, and as Ghirahim turned his narrowed eyes to her, trying to let her see as little of his bloodied self as possible, he noted that she was glaring back at him just as hard as she came back to her feet, looking satisfied to get some cheap vengeance now that he had been efficiently 'gentled down'.

He maintained his over-the-shoulder glare, tightening his arms over his chest as he grimaced, and focused on pouring his utter hatred into what was visible of his expression. Impa, however, shifted to merely watching her enemy with neutrality, which evolved steadily into righteousness and superiority.

The sleek woman held no ill will within herself, observing her enemy's state of disarray. She was willing to let him walk away, to let him escape back through the portal; without a master, he was no threat. He was nothing. He would tuck his tail, hide away, lick his wounds in shame, and never muster the courage to show his face again.

She addressed him calmly, simply, her tone impassive, and her voice gentle, despite her disliking of this creature. She felt that his being here, and being here looking as if he had been beaten within an inch of his life, at least, was a decent omen. "It's over, then, is it?"

To the question, Ghirahim hardened his glare, swearing that if he had enough strength left in him for even an ounce of magic, he would gut that cocky wench! How -dare- she stand there and act so coy? How dare she rub this bitter failure in his face? How dare she?

The corners of Impa's lips upturned, just barely, as her piercing eyes maintained contact with Ghirahim's own steely gaze. She was unthreatened, no, worse, completely unafraid.

The bitter, angry, injured spirit could think of nothing to do or say in his defense, nothing to even make himself feel slightly better; nothing, nothing, nothing! All he could do was slip away through the portal, hoping to be otherwise unnoticed, and hoping, as well, that he could get himself far enough away, to some form of seclusion.

He wanted to be away from everything.

:: ::

"_Master.. If I may suggest a strategy?," his voice echoed inside Demise's mind, like some quiet adviser, whispering secrets into his ear, "I think it would be best for you to avoid the strikes from his sword for now. Instead, focus on putting the boy on the defensive, in order to, first, destroy his shield. After that, no matter how powerful his sword, he'll be unable to match you."_

_Paying no heed, Demise brutally battered the meager child before him, swinging the massive blade in his hand with vigor, and bloodlust. Too bad he was actually battering the hero's shield and sword, and not making one single significant blow on the blonde boy. This was what had begun to make the dark sword spirit anxious concerning strategy, and he forced himself to speak up, though his master hate-hate-hated when his tool acted as if it were superior in -any- way._

"_What makes you think I need your strategies or suggestions to best this child, tool?," hissed the demon king, "No human has ever managed to stand against me without swiftly meeting their end."_

_Demise maintained his calm, focused barrage of attacks; Surely the boy would tire out soon enough, and once he lost the speed of his steps, and his quick reflexes bent under exhaustion, the demon king would tear the tiny boy into pieces. (And enjoy it.)_

_After some reluctance, and not seeing any end to this fatal pattern his master had fallen into, Ghirahim spoke up once more, "I realize that you are powerful, sire, but I've fought this boy numerous times already. I've stood against him, analyzing his fighting style as it matured, and I'm relaying this information to you, for your benefit."_

_Again, Demise paid more heed to his ego, and thrust his sword even faster and harder, more as a means to punish Ghirahim than the Hero, in truth. "Like I said.. I don't need your suggestions."_

_This is where Ghirahim started to grow desperate. "Master," he began, wanting to chew off his own tongue at the subservient tone to his voice, "You may wish to take into account that while he may only be a human child, he was selected by the goddess Hylia for this very purpose.. I'd hate to say it, but," He -REALLY- hated to say it, "It might be better if you don't underestimate her judgement, if only to side with caution."_

"_Indeed.." Demise was laughing, in his head. "Her judgement concerning you was rather accurate. She cast you off, a useless creation. Why don't you just shut up? For all your darkness, the part of you that consistently reminds you that you are her creation begins to show, and it is truly sickening."_

_With Demise having made his point absolutely clear, (or sharp, however you take it), Ghirahim ceased talking, hoping that it improved his master's concentration, at least._

_But, as the battle waged on, the Hero never once faltered. Never once did he begin to lose his determination, and even if he was utterly exhausted, and hiding that fact, he never slowed, and his strength behind his sword did not wane, not even by a fraction of a fraction. On the other hand, Ghirahim was all-too-aware that his master was breaking a sweat; he could feel it in the palm of Demise's scaly hands._

_And Demise wasn't the only one that was beginning to break. If swords could flinch, or flail, or scream in agony, then Ghirahim would have to fight to remain still and silent. Each time he felt the Master Sword, his sibling sword, his other half, connect to him, steel-to-steel, the light from within that blade jolted through his frame, breaking his resolve bit by bit. It wasn't because light was inherently stronger than dark, because Fi was surely feeling the same sensation of pain at having to clash with her darkened twin, but it was because light and dark were two opposite, opposing forces, which naturally attempted to banish one another upon contact. And, unfair as it may have been, Ghirahim was already insultingly aware that Fi's blade was intentionally forged to be stronger than his, and that he could not just bear this to the very end- Eventually, one sword would break, and he knew it would be him, as begrudgingly as he was forced to admit that to himself. _

"_...Master," Ghirahim uttered, pushed to the edge, or backed into a corner, or whatever other metaphor one could use to express complete desperation, "I cannot endure this.. If you continue to subject me to strikes from that blessed blade... My own blade will surely shatter..."_

"_If I shatter you," Demise hissed, his voice obviously becoming desperate as well, "it will be the moment I strike this child down, and you'll be revived in his blood. I've broken you to pieces far too many times to remember, yet always at a time that your blade is coated in blood. You'll endure this. You will, because I order you to do so.."_

"_Yes," Ghirahim agreed, though he had no belief in his own words as he spoke them, "Yes, Master..." He remained subservient, despite his sureness that he was at his own breaking point, but even so, for the shortest moment he assured himself that -IF- Demise lost this battle, he will have deserved it.._

'Curse him,' Ghirahim was thinking. Feeling bitterness for his master's loss, his -own- loss, was the most he could manage. A night had passed him by while he hid himself in the coverage of thick brush, a circle of dogwood trees, overgrown with vining honeysuckle, and a carpet of moss beneath him.

(It might have been pretty, but -damn it-, he was sleeping on the ground.. And he hadn't even recovered enough strength to do anything about it.)

'Curse him,' he thought again, 'Pompous, useless, overgrown, imbecile.' Ghirahim would deny that he ever served such a foolish, egotistical idiot, but the truth remained, Demise had been stronger than him. Demise had been strong enough to force Ghirahim into submission so very, very long ago. Demise had been strong enough to blacken Ghirahim's blade with the blood of the innocent, and while Ghirahim might have enjoyed that part of it, he recalled that Demise had also been ruthless enough to use his sword to the point of shattering it, only to force the spirit to reforge his own steel, in blood, far more times than the spirit wished to recall.

Having his sword -broken- might have not killed him, but it wasn't pleasant by any stretch of the word, and it took a lot out of him to regrow himself. So, naturally, Demise forced the blade to heel at his touch, and broke him apart so many times that Ghirahim couldn't refuse- He had to accept Demise as his master. He was too exhausted to do anything but submit.

That tore apart his pride more than anything else, truly.

Aside from brute strength that Demise held above him, Ghirahim still considered all demons to be beneath him. They tried to walk on two legs, and they spoke in their primitive, unrefined little tongues, but they were all just stupid animals. They all went about killing, and shedding blood without any perception of why they even did so. They lacked thought, blackening the world beneath them in endless sprees of carnage, but in the end, they lacked what Ghirahim knew he had. Reason. Tact.

Stupid animals without thought. Weak of mind, weak of will; This is why mortals always bested demons. This is why all that was left of Demise were ominous clouds and empty threats that he conjured on a whim.

That idiot. That dim-witted fool. For all of Ghirahim's carefully laid plans, his own master was the malignant tumor attached to it all. He spoiled it! He spoiled it! He spoiled it all without a single regret! Maybe he was expecting his sword to resurrect him again, like an obedient servant? Maybe that was what he meant in promising to return? Feh- Ghirahim would be damned if he wasted any more time on him.

At this point, Ghirahim was convinced that this was all just an intricately constructed game. Perhaps Hylia, herself, created demons, and the forces of darkness, if only to keep her people from growing complacent. Mortal creatures needed to be challenged in order to live happily, after all. They need a little Darwinism to keep their lines thriving. It was cruelly suitable.

Ghirahim raised his fist, and pounded it back against the ground in fury and resent; it sent enough pain surging into his injured chest to stop his heartbeat, if such a thing was possible, but he didn't even regret the pain.

As he laid crumpled, and feeling embarrassingly tiny, he attempted to clear his head, pushing the thoughts of bitterness out, lest he crave more punishment for his own failures. With no place else to look but up, his dark eyes unwillingly focused on the fluttering shapes of blue sky between the canopy of leaves above him. It was an ever-moving world of endless blue and the yellow-green that leaves turned when the sun showed through the chlorophyl of their tissues, tracing the patterns of their veins in between, and it was all dappled with harsh, golden sunlight.

The sword spirit could feel those dancing splashes of warm, yellow light moving across his skin, tickling him and making him want to fidget and itch, only to send pain racing through him all over again- He hated it. The only reprieve was a light breeze, which served to cool him, since he was more accustomed to darkness. However, the breeze contributed to his torture as well, rustling the scent of honeysuckle and the pink and white blossoms of the trees around him. It wasn't that he minded flowery smells, in fact, he quite liked it, but here.. It was sickeningly sweet, suffocating. It was heavy on his chest as he forced it to expand and contract, burning all the while.

The heavy, fresh, sweet perfume of fragrant blossoms, of renewed life in spring, so young and tender, it reminded him of.. Well, it reminded him of plenty of people, but it reminded him mostly of that girl. She was so soft, like a tender blossom in his hands, and she smelled as sickeningly sweet as these accursed, flowering trees. She smelled as fresh and alive as this beautiful forest, or so Ghirahim begrudgingly recalled.

This was life as Hylia intended it. It was pathetic.

"Are you satisfied..Hylia?," Ghirahim coughed his curses, barely able to piece together understandable language from the blood settling in the back of his throat. "Are you satisfied? ..Did I serve the purpose of my creation to the fullest of your intentions? ...Was my _failure_ to your _liking_?"

All over again, the sword spirit caught himself pounding his fists into the ground, springing his pains back to the surface, back to their previous intensity, and again, he dared not regret his own self-harm, because he was too busy expressing his explosive anger to care how much it hurt.

He preferred to be angry and in pain than to admit that he was now without purpose, without reason to live, and though he had spent his life trying to rebel against his creator, he had done exactly as she always intended. He _failed_.

Suddenly, he stopped moving altogether, the pain becoming far too much for him to endure while flailing; and it wasn't just physical pain. There was also his forsaken emotion regret. Tentatively, he raised his hands above his head, letting his sharp, black eyes scan over his gloved palms. The white material was no longer white material at all- It was reddish-brown material that was caked in blood and dirt. His fingers trembled, his hands disgraceful to look upon, and what was worse... The rest of him looked just as bad.

His white clothes were covered in blotches of filthiness, mostly from battle, but some of it was fresh from his choice of resting area, and surely his clothes had been ripped in more than one place, as well. His hair was disheveled, and matted with blood, and some of it clung to his face, glued to his skin from having been wet down with who-knows-what-all.

He dropped his hands to the ground, turning his head to the side as he struggled to curl in on himself. He wanted to vanish, to disappear without anybody ever seeing him. Pushing his face down against the soft, cool moss, he felt as if he could hide away, ashamed of his appearance, of his broken body, and of his accursed failures. He wanted this to end; however, he knew better than to think he could locate the proper means to his own end in such a horrid condition. It was beneath him.

It was beneath him to look imperfect, even in death.

"..kyuu?"

With a harsh crack, Ghirahim's head snapped to one side, his wide, dark eyes turning toward a sudden sound that had come to disturb him. He glared toward a new opening in the surrounding foliage, noticing that a young Kikwi had found its way into the mess of vines for whatever reason these silly rodents crawled around under bushes.. Probably looking for a hiding place.

At first, Ghirahim was so utterly bothered by this equally surprised pest that he felt he could very well bare his teeth, and hiss like a snake in a burrow, finding company most undesirable. He didn't do this, of course, wanting to maintain some semblance of his dignity, and he settled for staring the little rodent down as it froze, and stared back at him.

But what would a little rat know of dignity, anyway? The spirit couldn't believe he could stoop so low, but at this point he supposed it really didn't matter anymore. If he wanted to right himself, he had very specific needs to get himself back on his feet. He dragged himself up to his knees, keeping one hand pressed to his wound, though it seeped blood as easily as it had the moment it was caused, the leaking crimson gushing between his fingers.

Ghirahim was much too injured for magic, and he couldn't summon his weapons, but his will to survive now, to fix his situation, it was beyond even his ego, and he reverted to his most basic instincts, to something that felt primal, as if he were some beast in the wilderness. He may have been lacking weapons.. But he still had his hands.

The Kikwi, however, was even closer to its own instincts, and it had sensed some amount of danger from the very moment it waddled under the foliage. With a panicked cry, the little creature ducked out of sight, leaving the tortured spirit on his own, once again.

Ghirahim could do nothing but collapse, his energy sapped beyond his will. He laid still, breathing the scent of Earth (which he detested), and hating..everything. He felt so small, and weak. He had fallen from his once pristine perfection. He had failed. He had been bested, and all this together amounted to a pain much more debilitating than the one in his chest. Collectively, it pushed him very near to a state of unconsciousness that the body is forced into out of pity from the weakening will of the mind, only able to bear so much before breaking. He almost considered asking Hylia to end it for him, to make him disappear, to vanquish him as simply as she had breathed life into him..

But no.. No.. He would not do that. In his pain, he cursed Hylia, hating her now as much as he hated her the day she made him.

"You can make me suffer all you want," the spiteful creature breathed his words lowly, swallowing dryly before he continued, "You can leave me down here to perish.. You can let my spirit fragment until the entirety of my being vanishes from existence... But I swear I won't beg you to end it. I won't beg you to set me free, I won't beg you for release... I'll rot or rust, and I'll suffer for an eternity before I turn to you for aid! I swear.."

::

He wasn't aware of how long it had been that he was sleeping; it appeared to have gotten a bit later in the day by perhaps only a few hours, but for all he knew, it could have been another day altogether. Another thing he wasn't sure of was when he moved to sit upright, propped back against the trunk of the dogwood tree.

The weak spirit stretched his back, his body seeming to grow more stiff the longer he spent lying around, gushing blood. (The moss in the clearing was disgusting, with stains of blood streaked here and there, and wherever the sword spirit had situated himself.)

For all the bleeding, however, rest had certainly brought back some spark of energy deep within the spirit's frame. He wondered if his body had grown desperate and had begun to repair with his own blood. This didn't sound likely, because his blood was probably as drained of iron as it was possible to be, from having repaired so many times in the recent past.

Slowly, Ghirahim took a breath, inhaling as deeply as he could manage before letting the air escape his lungs.

His newly awakened state of calm seemed to serve him well, because the same Kikwi from before was perched just outside the clearing, looking in through a tiny hole it had made in the curtain of vines. The small creature was curious but nervous, and it watched Ghirahim carefully, observing with some degree of concern. It could certainly feel the dark aura of hatred and malice that tainted the spirit's very being, but it could also feel the divine touch of the goddess beneath all that, and this seemed to hold greater weight.

The nervous creature shuffled outside the makeshift den, troubling itself with rolling along a pink-skinned fruit that was almost the size of its tiny body. It pushed the fruit into the den, tiny paws extending as far away from its body mass as they possibly could, so that the rodent could get the fruit close enough to the spirit for it to grab, without the spirit being able to grab him up, instead.

He obviously meant this as a gift, to help Ghirahim recover.

Quietly, Ghirahim watched the creature struggle with placement of its offering. He placed one hand over his wounded chest as he kept his dark eyes fixated on the jittery rodent; the tiny Kikwi might have been focused on getting this food-item into reach, but he never removed his beady little eyes from the much larger creature. He was cautious, while the injured creature was as still and silently suspicious as a serpent.

Idly, Ghirahim extended a hand once he felt the offering was close enough for him to grasp without having to reach very hard for it. He lifted the rounded fruit in his hand, and carefully scrutinized its pink skin, seeming as if he would reject it at the slightest flaw.

When he found it to be to his liking, he placed it near his white lips, and bit into it; his focus remained, all the while, on the Kikwi who was also still watching him carefully. In silence, the sword spirit allowed himself to indulge in the unneeded form of sustenance, if only to appear that he was grateful for the gift. The truth was altogether another story; he was utterly discontent. He was displeased, and it showed quite clearly as he lowered the fruit to be idly cupped in one hand, and he licked the sweet juice from his lips before he spoke up in his gentlest tone.

"This won't help me," his voice was no greater than a whisper. He was extremely weak for his injuries, and it was even audible in his speaking. "These sorts of things don't meet my specific needs.."

The Kikwi tilted its head curiously as it listened, the tip of its needle-snout twitching in frustration, showing that it clearly understood that its effort had been to no avail.

As if in peace, Ghirahim extended his fingers to the tiny creature, letting it get a quick sniff with its long, needle-like snout, letting it see a momentary gentleness, and perhaps this all helped it to identify whether the spirit was dangerous or harmless. Then, he slowly withdrew his hand again, bringing it to rest in his lap.

Remaining patient, the spirit laid his head back against the tree trunk, finding it no more comfortable than simply holding his head up himself. Still, he let his eyes fall shut, and felt he could doze off again. He wished that this would restore more of his strength, but he thought not.

The Kikwi continued to watch, beginning to believe this other creature was trustworthy, as it hadn't shown any sign of outward violence. He looked upon the sleeping spirit, thinking his skin had fallen paler, and more lackluster than it had been; he could see that the spirit was injured, but he didn't know how to help.

"I need something else," the spirit finally whispered, as if he had read the rodent's very thoughts. The observant creature squeaked, and nodded, letting out the occasional, 'Kyu?,' to urge the spirit on in his explanations.

"There's.. Something else you can give me," the wounded spirit continued, "..if you want to help-," here, the spirit seemed to tense, his speech hindered by the pain that came with speaking. One hand came up to clutch at his injury again, his entire body trembling in a jolt of paralyzing discomfort.

The Kikwi decided that he didn't want to let the other creature weaken any further, as his injuries were clearly intolerable, and he needed help. The rodent's naive concern outweighed his nervousness, and he chattered in a soft, squeaky tone, reassuring, comforting, padding himself ever closer on his tiny paws, until his delicate paws rested against the other creature's thigh, and the Kikwi was intent on crawling up closely enough to observe the injury, and seek further help.

Ghirahim's eyes were merely slits as he watched and waited, the stony darkness of his irises looking dismal and blurred, but still able to perceive the image of the tiny rodent as it crawled near, trusting him, tending to him without any second thoughts.

And then, without any warning, the malice from underneath his pretenses struck like a serpent, and Ghirahim's hands were around the neck of the too-trusting Kikwi. Actually, the creature was quite rolly-polly, and so the sword spirit was unsure if the part he was brutally squeezing could really be called a neck, though surely a spine, esophagus and trachea were somewhere beneath his tightly curling fingers, being crushed while the helpless creature let out choked cries, and looked up in terror.

It wasn't long before a resounding 'crunch' could be heard, and the small rodent coughed blood from it's needle-snout before going entirely limp. Ghirahim felt to be squirming beneath his own skin at the relief this would offer, and he bit his lip to stifle his own joyous giggling. The type of madness that overtook him then, from the very first drop of blood spilled, was one that was difficult for even him to comprehensively explain, let alone control.

The dead Kikwi was dropped from his grasp, but the sword spirit set upon it like a starving carnivore; his deep, black eyes lusted for the sight of red, consuming red, beautiful red, glorious red. He wanted to paint himself in fabulous ruby, overwhelmingly vibrant scarlet, and goddesses, was he ever close to doing exactly that. He found, though, that the more he longed to spill crimson, the blacker his vision grew, as if he were possessed by otherworldly forces, but despite that, his body still moved, and it moved with quick, brutal ferocity, the pain from his injuries lost in the spiral of insanity that was consuming him.

The steel beneath his skin was brittle from bloodloss, but not so much that he could fragment himself, and his fists remained heavy weapons as his fingers tightly balled, and he lifted his hand up over his head before slamming it down upon the body of the small rodent, crushing its fragile bones, rupturing its delicate inner workings, but not yet tearing its skin, though small droplets of blood bubbled out from its narrow snout.

With the creature appropriately shattered to pieces on the inside, the sword spirit, who seemed now more of a demon, clawed at the downy fur of the Kikwi's underbelly, ripping out tufts that gently fluttered away in the breeze, until the spirit's claws at last came to shred into flesh, and finally the creature was torn open, and its blood was accessed like a most precious resource. Again, it was lifted into the twisted spirit's hands, and raised up, so that the flow of crimson poured down upon the spirit's gouged chest like a healing ointment.

Quickly, the sword spirit's body latched onto the rich supply of iron in the blood of the Kikwi, and the injury was mended in the bloodbath, the skin closing, albeit messily, leaving behind an ugly mark, like a wound that had been poorly tended with stitches and overly sticky bandaids.

As Ghirahim came down from his high, he still outwardly celebrated, a smirk pulling tightly at his pallid, cracked lips, the tip of his tongue trailing out to clean away a stray splash of blood that had dirtied his face. He could feel himself coming back, regaining strength, getting back to _himself._ But the further his blood-borne giddiness slipped away, the more he recalled that he wasn't even close, not yet, to his once glorious perfection. Actually, it was right the opposite, and his gut twisted in a flurry of sudden anger at that knowledge. He must have looked so pathetic, butchering little animals with his hands, as if he were merely a slightly larger, equally filthy animal.

His grin turned easily to a grimace, and he slammed down the body of the Kikwi as it was emptied of blood; however, he continued tearing at the dead creature, though instead of his previous desperation to fulfil his own needs, he now struck the dead animal out of nothing more than explosive fury.

This was beneath him. This was beneath him. This was so, so, utterly beneath him.

:: ::

::

_[To all readers: Please take a moment to help lighten the mood for yourself after the gruesome closing to the last scene by reading this next scene to the sound of 'Groose's Theme'. Thank you, and enjoy.]_

::

"Are you sure you can handle this?," the blonde girl crossed her arms over her chest as she smirked playfully, yet gave the towering male at her side a disbelieving stare.

"Don't tell me you're doubting me, too!," the red-haired male cried out in his defense, having had more than his fair share of semi-polite doubt concerning his actions recently. Honestly, nobody took him seriously at his word. Why was that?

Zelda laughed at how offended the taller male grew, yet she still batted a small, elegant hand at him as if to calm his heartbroken disbelief. "No, of course not!," she reassured, "It's just that.. This seems so unlike you, Groose!"

It wasn't that the young girl thought that Groose was really going to get himself into any serious trouble, but she was honestly a bit worried about him. It seemed like almost no time had passed between the day that she was breaking up playground-esque fights that Groose had started, and now, the day he had decided to settle on the surface, taking on the responsibility of building a home for himself, as well as others- That was his plan, anyway.

Zelda shifted her eyes down toward the ground, gazing off into nothing as a gentle smile tugged at her pinkish lips, but she allowed a melancholy look to cross her face. It was stupid that she felt a stir of sadness just knowing that everybody around her was, just, -growing up-, but.. It all seemed so surreal, like it had happened far too quickly.

"Hey, what can I say?," Groose shrugged, proud despite his friend's doubts, "A lot has happened recently. I'm not the kid I used to be!"

It was true, and Zelda knew it. She quietly laughed to herself, feeling strange at how much she had come to respect Groose, of all people, but she dared not let him know, or else he'd get far too sure of himself. "Now I know you're giving yourself way too much credit."

"Oh c'mon!," Groose whined, desperate for Zelda's approval. He glanced back to the quiet party following along slightly behind, looking for some backup. "Link, will you please tell her? Tell her about all the things I did while she was napping!"

The young hero snapped his head up to look toward Groose and Zelda, who were walking side-by-side in front of him. He blinked for a moment, the blank look on his face making it entirely too obvious that he was off in space, and not -really- listening intently. He did manage to filter in what Groose had been saying to him, though, and he offered a soft nod to go along with a sincere smile before granting the verbal reassurance that Groose had been hoping for, "He's not lying."

"Yeeah!, see?" Groose pumped his fist with pride, nodding his head to Zelda in a manner that just oozed 'I-told-you-so', while she sighed in exasperation and rolled her eyes at him through the unimpressed grin that still lingered on her lips.

"Hey, hey, Link!," Groose called out, looking over his shoulder again, as he waved his hand at Link to keep filling Zelda in on all the helpful things he did, "Tell her about how we fought that scaly monster, and how I blew it up with the Groosenator!"

"No way!," Zelda chimed in, giving Groose's arm a playful smack, "Stop trying to steal Link's spotlight!"

'Blew it up' probably was an over-the-top way to explain the part Groose played in fighting the monstrous, weakened form of demon king Demise, but.. Groose did seem truly proud of himself, and excited in a 'I-really-did-something-good' way, rather than just boasting for the sake of impressing Zelda. Link knew better than to under-praise Groose, no matter how minute his contribution. Having some help was better than none at all, and Link was truly, truly grateful.

"It's true, though," Link calmly assured, "He did help fight the monster. He was extremely diligent and brave. Don't write him off so easily. His determination really is something else.."

This was probably a bit beyond the extent of praise that Groose was expecting to receive. It was easy to tell that he was embarrassed from the way he chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck in a flustered manner.

"Alright then," the much smaller, blonde girl spoke in a pleasant tone, her voice like the gentle chime of silvery bells, "I believe you, but still.. This is a lot of work for one person to handle alone! I'm worried about you!"

"Hey, it's no problem," Groose calmly reassured, "I fell in love with this place, so I was already planning to build myself a house here. But I don't wanna turn into some kind of hermit, so of course I can build other houses. That way, people from Skyloft can come down here, too, even if it just for a temporary vacation."

Zelda looked around, admiring the semi-untouched area in Faron Woods that the small group had wandered to, nodding her head in agreement. "There is a lot more room here." For a second, she continued to survey the surroundings, just taking in the glory of it all, then she laughed to herself, speaking up determinedly, "Well, I can't let you do it all alone. I'll help you however I can."

"You don't have to do that!," now Groose waved his hand at the blonde girl by his side, as if to deter her. "Just keeping me company is enough!"

Instantly, the young girl crossed her arms all over again, her tone turning steely, "You think I can't handle it?"

Groose gasped, having not meant to offend Zelda, "No, no, that's not what I'm saying!," he attempted to recover.

This somehow reminded Link of when Zelda's father had tried to have a serious discussion with his daughter about how dangerous it would be to become a Knight of Skyloft; that only led to Zelda becoming even more determined to prove that she was capable.

"You shouldn't try to talk her out of it," Link cut in, hoping to save Groose the heartache of even continuing the conversation, if he hoped to get anywhere.

Groose shrugged his shoulders guiltlessly, stuttering an explanation, "I'm not, I was just-" The tall, red-haired male noted that Link was shaking his head, and cut himself off, quieting his own words with a defeated sigh,"..nevermind."

After smiling in triumph, the girl cast her kind, blue eyes back in the direction of her best friend, smiling at him with her own radiant brand of hope. "So, what about you, Link, are you going to help out, too?"

The young hero nodded his head instantly, more than willing to help his friends, as loyal as ever. "Of course I will.."

The discussion came to an abrupt halt when the trio noticed a distant rustle from somewhere off the path that laid behind them. Link was probably the one who noticed it first, noting the sound in the back of his mind, even when it was still very far away. Now, as it began to grow closer, drawing the attention of both Groose and Zelda as well, Link turned to face it at the same time as the other two Skyloftians.

The sound of vegetation shifting around the body of a rapidly moving force was swiftly approaching, and grew only nearer, until all three members of the wandering group spotted movement of leafy branches, and stirring of heavily overgrown patches of forest, then at last the cause of the disturbance scampered out onto the path.

The trio had all been tense as they watched and waited, but a collective sigh of relief was heaved as a Kikwi came rushing into their midst. Link was the only one who actually recognized what this creature was, but Zelda and Groose easily caught on that the small being was virtually harmless.

While the Kikwi was harmless, however, it was also clearly troubled by something that was potentially less harmless, so nobody present dropped their guard.

'Kyu.. kyu... kyu..,' the Kikwi panted, its tiny breaths ragged from the exhaustion of running. It had heard that Link had returned to Faron woods and went on a desperate chase after the well-known, young hero.

Link took a few steps closer to the Kikwi, concerned at how unnerved and afraid the small creature appeared; anyone would assume that the forest was being suddenly overrun by a hoard of bokoblin, knowing that Kikwi preferred to hide over running until their tiny hearts exploded.

"What's wrong?," Zelda spoke in concern from behind Link. She didn't need to know what a Kikwi was to recognize that it was troubled, and wish to help.

Giving the small creature enough time to catch its breath, the group patiently waited to be enlightened as to the problem, and why this tiny thing had approached them with such haste. The Kikwi hadn't even properly slowed it breathing before it peered up at Link with desperation in its beady eyes.

"You're the Hero in Green, aren't you?," it paused, still panting, "Link? Link is your name, right?"

Link nodded his head to the Kikwi. He wasn't terribly surprised that he wasn't actually acquainted with this particular Kikwi, yet it was perfectly aware of who it was speaking to.

"I've been," it gulped, panting, and panting, "I've been looking all over for you. -We've- been looking all over," it panted further, until finally it seemed to have caught its breath. "The chief Kikwi sent a handful of us out looking for you, hoping to locate you. We were so afraid that you had returned to the sky, and that you weren't coming back."

Automatically, Link knew better than to assume that the Kikwi's were simply alarmed that he had departed; there was a reason they were looking for him, yet he was puzzled at what it could possibly be. "What's going on?," he asked, his voice laden with concern, yet perfectly calm.

The Kikwi fidgeted at the mere thought of what the answer was, not even wanting to discuss it in any detail. He was practically glancing over his shoulder at every otherwise normal sound of the forest. He wrung his tiny paws, but answered, "There has been a terrible disturbance in the forest, and we need your help."

From behind him, Link could hear Groose chuckling, and muttering, "Link saves the world, and now these little critters want to run to him anytime something goes a bit wrong. One of them probably got stuck in a tree." He also heard Zelda giving him a slight elbow in the side.

"Please!," the Kikwi begged, panicking at the notion that Link might refuse to aid him, "Please, Hero in Green, this is truly urgent! We desperately need your help!"

"Calm down," the blonde boy spoke softly, trying to put the small creature at ease, "Take me to the Chief."

"Right!," the Kikwi squeaked, a wave of determination coming over him as Link agreed to help. "Follow me!"

The Kikwi bolted off so quickly that Link's eyes widened in surprise; he didn't even know that Kikwi could scamper so quickly. He turned to Groose and Zelda in a rush, a concerned expression making his thoughts most apparent. It was his, 'will you two be alright?' look.

Both Groose and Zelda nodded to Link, without him even needing to say anything, Groose promising to look after Zelda with a certain vigor as they urged Link to hurry after the Kikwi. He nodded in return, before turning on heel, and chasing after the desperate Kikwi.

::

/..to be continued../

::

"Master?" Ghirahim questioned, his voice caught on the threshold between confusion and mild concern. "Master, why are you not attacking the boy?"

With an equal amount of confusion, as well as a touch of fury, Demise hissed a response, almost as enraged as he was embarrassed. "Damn it!," he cursed, "What is this confounding weapon that this human child is waving so enthusiastically in my face?"

Ghirahim wavered, uncertain if he should even risk further upsetting his master with an answer. For a moment, he watched from the blackened confines of his blade as Demise's head whipped sharply back and forth, up and down, trying desperately to keep from losing sight of the perceived threat.

"..Master," Ghirahim began, still feeling hesitant, though he gathered his courage, "That's just a bug net.."

::

_[Has anybody else tried waving their bug net in Demise's face? His reaction is hilarious.]_

::


	2. Chapter 2

Hello to all of those who are currently reading; Be aware that this fanfiction is in direct competition with my usual fandom. It you want to see it updated quickly, then show me some love! ;)

Also, even if you don't leave a review, check the voting topic on my profile: The voting topic typically dictates which fic I put the most work into. If you want this fic to have a healthy start against my other well-established fics, better get voting. ;) However, know that I'll most likely gravitate toward whichever fandom treats me more nicely, in the end. =)

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[ _Attention all Kikwi and other residents of Faron Woods! ,_

_Should you come across a suspicious and mysterious stranger in white, please refrain from helping him, no matter how distressed he may appear. This is for the safety of us all. Thank you,_

_-Faron Woods Neighborhood Watch Committee._]

:: ::

/..Cynnel was a kind man, but his thoughts tended to wander. He worked slowly, his head in the clouds, imagining what his life could be if he could make more for himself. He fell behind, still, concerned that his wallet was far too light, and the heaviness of a few more rupies could always help make his life better. He thought that his wife might be, one day, tempted to look at other men with desire, should he not appease her.

Cynnel was a gentle man, he always spoke softly. His wife was a humble woman with small, roughened hands. Still, she was content with her simplistic life, but her face was masked in constant worry, worry that what little she had might be stolen away one tragic day. The world was peopled with monsters these days and her husband worked from the cold, misty hours of dawn, until the buzzing hours beyond sunset. She worked to protect their life together, but she knew she was too weak to protect her beloved husband. She was too weak to even chastise him for how little he got done, even after long days of work.

Cynnel was a friendly man, he did what was humanitarian, often denying his own wants in order to look out for others. The village nearby was constantly low on supplies of food. It was subjected to attacks by those wild, uncivilized tribes of Bokoblins, because that village trained wonderful soldiers, making dark forces want to destroy it that much more, and it was raided on a constant basis. Cynnel was not so much a target, and he sold goods to them at discounted prices, and sometimes just gave crates of food away for free, out of the goodness of his heart. Still, in the back of his mind, he thought perhaps they were all just foolish excuses for soldiers, if they couldn't even protect their own village.

Cynnel was a good man. He was such a good man that one day the goddess bestowed him with a wonderful gift. Before his eyes, a magnificent sword fell from the sky, and was plunged into the ground. He first thought this holy blade, which bore the crest of the Goddess, Hylia, was given to him for his defense, and he carefully wrapped the blade in cloth to be carried on his back to his home. Cynnel's wife was happily astonished, trusting her husband's word that the blade had been presented to him by the goddess. Still, she worried that the goddess might have intended this as an omen, a warning that something terrible was soon to happen, and Cynnel's wife didn't believe her husband could ever wield such a massive, heavy blade.

Cynnel took everything in his stride. After a few weeks, he became complacent, because the monsters had been so quiet lately. He wondered if it was the beautiful sword that the goddess had sent to him, but he just chuckled as he pushed those thoughts aside. That blade would never aid him, because though he had tried, he was unable to lift it, and the harder he tried, the more it seemed to burn against his skin. He thought, instead, maybe he was meant to sell this blade to the soldiers of the village nearby? It seemed more appropriate. It was when Cynnel's daughter began to stand before the blade, staring for hours, as if in a daze, before crying to her parents that the sword had been talking to her, that Cynnel's mind was made up, and he sent a message, by bird, to one of the soldiers he knew very well. He mentioned a blade that repelled monsters, knowing they would need it more than he did.

It's true, Cynnel was a good man on the outside. However, in his mind, he was still only human, and his will was weak. When his friend, the soldier, arrived to take the sword from his possession, Cynnel posed a high price for the blade, which the soldier found utterly ridiculous, having come thinking that this sword was meant as a gift. This outraged Cynnel, and his words became heated, growing fiercer and fiercer, as if he was letting a mysterious voice from over his shoulder speak for him, until finally he was so furious that he took the sword in hand, feeling the massive steel suddenly light as a feather, and he used the sword to slaughter his friend.

Cynnel was frightened, certain he felt the sword shiver in pleasure at the bloodshed, the tremble creeping up the man's fingers, and he wanted to drop the sword, toss it away, but he could not. This was because his wife had come running, and thrown herself down upon the fallen soldier. Only at this very moment did foolish Cynnel realize that his friend and wife had been lovers, and since the sword was already in hand, he slashed at the frail woman in a frenzy, not even aware if she was dead, wanting to spill as much of her traitorous blood as possible. From there, Cynnel saw that his life was in pieces, and he turned his enraged stare upon his daughter, who had come running, and was crying out at an intolerable pitch as she laid eyes on her mutilated mother. Cynnel's life was in pieces, and so he carved his only offspring up to match.

Only after every other living thing had been rendered silent did Cynnel wonder where -that- voice could be coming from? There was a voice, still whispering, he could hear it now, and he was sure that it wasn't in his head. He looked wildly from left to right, and all around, searching for the source of the laughter he could hear, until the voice softly cooed an explanation; the voice was coming from the bloodied blade he held in his hand.

Cynnel dropped the sword in terror as the voice mocked him. It laughed at how weak-minded Cynnel was, and how easily he had allowed the sword's aura to corrupt him. The sword pointed out that its darkness had infected the pathetic human, making him see and hear things differently from how they really were. His friend had only been trying to reason with him out of worry, and his wife had come running with the thought that her husband had possibly been attacked by monsters. From their blood, Cynnel was much too weak to stop himself, and he killed his own daughter for no further reason than because of his own self-pity.

Finally, the spirit from inside the sword revealed himself to Cynnel, coming out to point and laugh at the foolish man who was down on his knees on a blood-covered floor, weeping at his own stupidity. Cynnel could take no more, and though the blade no longer felt light to him, he grasped the sharpened edges, letting it bite into the flesh of his fingers as he pulled the pointed end against his own middle, and forced it inside himself, dying on the floor with the blade encased in his flesh, unable to go on living. The spirit shivered in delight, his arms tightly winding around himself, as if to contain the surge of pleasure he was feeling. His head fell back in ecstacy as he breathed a softly contented sigh.

They say the sword was able to take hold of the darkness Cynnel kept hidden in his heart, and through slow, patient suggestion, the sword forced one innocent man to slaughter his best friend, his family, and himself. This is only one legend that proceeds an endless collection of stories about a demon sword coming into the lives and hands of various clans of people, only to end them all in pointless bloodshed.

They say that the sword hates all of the Goddess's people, and that in its pride, it ends up hating other creatures of darkness as well. But they also say that one day the sword's seemingly endless well of hatred will dry up, and at that time, it will be so beside itself for it only will have enough strength left to hate itself../

:: ::

Link would say that his ability to navigate in Faron Woods was on par with even the residents who had lived here their entire lives. Despite the size difference between himself and the Kikwi who was leading him through winding brush and forest paths meant for tiny, rounded bodies, the Hero was able to keep up without much of an issue.

He did come to learn, though, that his exploration through the forest had not been all-encompassing. Actually, it seemed that Link had only uncovered a tiny patch in this lush, green world. It left him wondering what sorts of places laid between those few areas he had discovered and rediscovered and rediscovered.

The place he stood before now was most certainly one of those places.

It had been surrounded in some of the most densely overgrown vegetation imaginable, but thanks to the Kikwi leading him, he was allowed inside what he could only assume was some ancient, holy fortress of Kikwi kind.

At the Hero's back was an encircling wall of trees, all growing so impossibly close together that their bodies had deformed in time, arching at weird angles, twisting their branches around and around, until they were practically braided to one another. Their roots must have been tangled so tightly that not even a Mogma could burrow into this place. If all this wasn't enough, the misshapen trunks and branches of those trees were equally tangled with harsh, thorny vines- It might not have been as sturdy as a stone wall, but it would have been a painful force to deal with to any who was unaware of the location of the entrance.

Standing directly before Link, in all of its magnificence, was what almost appeared to be a temple that, like the fortifying wall, was constructed through careful manipulation of trees as they grew. The young teen's head slowly angled further and further back as he gazed up at the never-ending twist of trees; these trees had been pulled together, in a spiral, to form the main bulk of the fortress. Then, areas containing Earth had been chiseled into the trunk of the older trees, and new trees grew from within them, forming walkways, and areas separate but accessible from the main body of the enormous work of creative diligence, and age-old dedication.

"What is this place?," Link posed, his soft voice laden with wonder.

The Kikwi who had been leading him, who still stood by his side as he gaped, answered with ease, "This is our temple. It was began by our full, united clan long ago, during the great war against the demonic forces, kyu. Normally it is looked after by the oldest, most honorable bloodlines, ku-eep, and they alone remain here. However, whenever any of the numerous branch-families are threatened by something most grave, we return here for safety, kwi. Only the leaders of each tribe and a handful of other Kikwi know how to navigate the way here with certainty, so this place is considered a great secret of our people, kwi. The fact that we brought an outsider here should make the degree of how terribly we need your help a bit more clear, ku-weep."

Quietly, Link listened, feeling he should be as respectful as possible as he was enlightened concerning the importance of this place to Kikwi kind. He nodded his head to the smaller creature as it finished its explanation and continued onward, leading the Skyloftian inside the great structure.

Once inside, Link did find his line of sight wandering, helplessly entranced by the intricacy of the tree-based temple. He was surrounded by easily the greatest concentration of Kikwi he had ever encountered, his attention captured by the skillful way they navigated the upward spiral of trees, crawling along the narrow walkways with ease, the view of them meshing together as it climbed too far for the eye to perceive, like a leafy, brown-and-cream colored whirlwind, constantly moving, never stopping.

However, despite the bustle of life here, there was also a tenseness, which Link didn't fail to sense as he entered. Many Kikwi glanced upon him with trust in their eyes, and went about their business, whereas others seemed to fidget away from the unfamiliar sight of a human, discontent at his very presence. Link didn't intend to stand around sight-seeing, and as much as he hated the uncomfortable feeling he had, he also assumed that allowing himself to be too at-ease would be taken offensively, especially since these creatures were here out of fear from something horrid.

The chief of this particular tribe of Kikwi was easily located; his size gave him away, no matter how he assumed he was a master of camouflage. Link approached him easily, calmly, as he knew Bucha quite well.

"Ah," the chief seemed to exclaim as he laid eyes on the familiar, green-clad human, though his voice withheld his excitement, his relief, "I see you've returned to the surface, Link. It puts me at ease to be speaking with you again, kwiii.."

The massive Kikwi spared a moment of gratitude to the messenger responsible for bringing Link to assist them, instructing him to now send word to the other messengers that they were to all return now, to safety. Link watched the quick exchange without interrupting, though he grew closer to dread in finding out why they had called for his aid, seeing how very serious they were taking things, when they normally just hid themselves without further issue.

The young hero remained gravely serious as Bucha turned back to him. The sizable Kikwi, as per usual, was also extremely collected, though his voice fell into a much darker tone than usual when he began to speak.

"We were very afraid that we wouldn't be able to contact you, kyu. I, myself, even started to doubt that you were coming back, kwii.."

Having not assumed that he was meant to act as the world's hero any further, Link inwardly cringed at how the chief Kikwi seemed to regard him; instantly, he felt a twinge of guilt at this, but he ignored his silly inner turmoil, and spoke nothing of it. He would help his friends now, because they had helped him when he needed it as well. His thoughts refocused on the trouble at hand, and his utter confusion at what could possibly be so dreaded now, -after- Demise's defeat, when Faron Woods had been relatively quiet, even before then.

With polite concern, and questioning in his tone, Link responded to Bucha. "I had returned home to Skyloft for a short time.. I didn't think that there would be any further trouble, now that the Demon King has been destroyed."

Bucha wisely nodded his head to the small human standing before him. "I hadn't thought so either, but as strange as it is, trouble cropped up almost immediately after we heard the news of the Demon King's defeat.. Very quickly, this situation spiraled into one of the most..disturbing events to occur here in an extremely long time, kyuu-kyuu..."

Just as he could sense from the surroundings, Link was given verbal confirmation of what he had begun to fear. He nodded in understanding, before speaking up again, the ring of his voice as grave as it could possibly sound. "What has happened?"

Equally grave, Bucha began to explain, "We are unclear on the full details, but.. All we know is that something in Faron Woods has been mercilessly killing anything that crosses its path, kyuuu. Not even those red monsters were ever directly responsible for such a high toll of death, kyuu.. Many of my own tribe have been murdered, and even more are still missing. Who knows how many other forest residents have fallen victim as well, kwii.."

Calm, despite how quickly his insides were coiling in nervousness, Link nodded his head in understanding as the chief Kikwi spoke. The teen continued in silence, as Bucha began to further elaborate; the large Kikwi curled slightly inward as he did so, bringing himself a bit closer to Link's level and he lowered his voice, not wanting to heighten the dread of his surrounding clan members.

"We were able to locate what we believe to be the hideout of the one responsible, kyu. There is a small stream that breaks off from Lake Floria, and dead-ends at a tiny pond, deep in the forest, kyuu. The creature responsible, whatever it may be, is probably staying there, ku-wii.. We learned of this during a scout for missing members of the tribe, kwii.. One member, while out searching, came to this area, and he rushed back to inform me of what he saw, kyu-kyu.. He told me that this creature, this monster, has been dumping its victims into the pond, and that there were more than he could count in the few moments he was standing there before he ran, kyuu," Bucha paused, taking a shaky breath, "..I went there to investigate, myself, kyu, but I dared not go near enough to see.. The overpowering scent of blood was too much for me to endure, along with the fear that whatever was living there was a very powerful evil that I could surely do nothing about, kwii... and that's why I brought my tribe here, holding out hope that you may turn back up, and rid Faron Woods of this evil, kwii."

There was a pause, a bitter silence after Bucha finished; this pause hung in the air, thick and heavy with burdensome responsibility, draping itself over Link's shoulders. As the situation sunk into the Hero's mind, the rest of his thought processes longed to shy away, yet he steeled himself for what he knew he would have to do. He had to face this gruesome scenario head on. He had to destroy the twisted source of this vile horror. He had to because he was the only one capable of doing so, and he knew it.

Once Link had hardened his will against the torment of his inescapable responsibility, he nodded to the Kikwi leader, promising the massive creature his aid with that one, small gesture. At this, Bucha breathed a sigh of relief, having known that the young hero would come through for them, and he dutifully bid Link to take out a map, so that the area mentioned previously could be marked, and Link could set out to investigate, and bring this troubling situation to an end.

:: ::

The presence of the Hero was an unmistakable tingle up the whole of his spine. He felt the rush, knowing that the child hero had finally, -finally-, responded to his desperate calling, his sweetly twisted pleading to see that boy's face one last time.

He knew the Hero was on his way, he could feel that much. He could feel the space between them steadily beginning to close itself up tightly, and it washed through his veins, making him shiver all over.

He smiled bitter-sweetly to himself, his dark eyes opening just barely, just enough for the desolate hue of his starless eyes to peer out from beneath his lids, and take in how properly he had set the scene; red with gruesome, poisonous romances, red with fire and passion.

That boy painted his world red. That was why he painted this small, private world red for him. It was to be their final arena, for their very last dance.

"...but are you ready, sky child?"

:: ::

It took a rather long while for Link to work his way out of the Kikwi fortress, then navigate himself through unknown areas of Faron Woods. His old practice sword was looking weary from cutting vines, the nicks in the iron from previous journeys filling themselves with dirt, and sticky, greenish fluid, which had leaked from some extremely hearty vegetation.

Aside from the usual growing patches of vicious Deku Baba, the woods were quiet and calm; they were eerily calm, which wasn't at all comforting. It was as if everything here was on high alert, and dared not make a sound. It was the first time Link actually wished he could run headlong into a gang of Bokoblin.

And the closer the teenage hero came to the shakily blotted mark on his map, the closer that creeping feeling came to slithering up the back of Link's neck, and capturing him in a stranglehold of nervousness. He wasn't afraid; he had seen way too much to bother with fear.. But that didn't mean that he wasn't overflowing with dread.

Even worse.. Link was even more alone than he had ever been. This time, he didn't even have Fi's company to soothe him.

When the air grew thick and humid, the young Skyloftian assumed that he was almost right on top of the mark he had been hunting for. He could smell damp earth, and water hanging in the air from the thickness of the canopy above. The overgrown trees and vines blocked out nearly all of the sun, yet they allowed in the radiated warmth, and held it inside, until even the plants were sweating in unbearable wet-heat.

Outside of his expectations, Link managed to locate what appeared to be a newly cut path through a grove of wild bamboo and hanging willow. He swallowed dryly as he navigated the awkwardly narrow trail, trying with all of his might not the slip as his boots squished along the damp path, which steadily sloped downward. His concentration remained solely on his footing, while the path became steeper, and steeper, and offered not even the slightest tooth of rockiness to aid in the grip of his boots in the muck.

The less-than-pleasant hiking, which began to ache in the back of the young hero's calves, offered what he was unaware could be a semi-pleasant distraction from how quickly the air turned stale around him, like overgrown algae and moss on rocks, and finally, like blood. Link's boot sank down into the silt at the edge of the very pond he had been looking for before he even noticed how foul the air he was breathing was.

Then, he raised his eyes to see how far the water stretched out before him. What he saw waiting behind a curtain of willow vines was a trickling, crystal-clear waterfall, which poured with grace and beauty into the most horrifying crimson pond that Link had ever laid eyes on. (It was the only crimson pond he had ever laid eyes on.)

The shock of seeing an entire body of water filled with enough blood to turn the whole pond murky red was disturbing enough to need a few moments to even properly _grasp_. Taking another moment to notice that it wasn't stones that protruded from the glassy, red surface, but _bodies_, _dozens of bodies_, ...it shouldn't have even been conceivable, yet there it was, gloriously gruesome, right before Link's eyes.

He would have gasped, he wanted to, because his heartbeat hastened so quickly that it left him breathless; a few gulps of the coppery air, of the smell of _death_, pushed the young teen dangerously near to the slippery slope that would have him bent over, heaving. He could feel the acidic burn in the back of his throat, the ache in his stomach, in his chest, and despite the danger, he turned away, grasping for something to ground him, anything, and it happened to be the trunk of a willow tree. His head was spinning. One arm was clutching at his middle as it tug-of-warred inside him, not knowing if it wanted to sink, or rise. His other hand was plastered over the lower half of his face, also uncertain in function; was it keeping a dry heave from turning into something worse, or was it there to relieve Link's senses with the smell of leather and dirt and sweaty palms? Anything was better than this place.

Already locked in battle, or so it appeared, Link fought an internal struggle; he fought against the lightness in his head, the heaviness in his limbs, and the empty ring of his heart beating in his ears. He fought, because he didn't want to end up laying here, part of this wretched collection. He found focus- There was the sound of buzzing, flies, mosquitos, he wasn't sure, but the buzzing was there. He could hear the buzz over the sound of pure water toppling down from the fall, into this horrible mess Link had stumbled into. He focused on that sound, he let it pull him back up onto his feet, metaphorically. Realistically, it aided the teen in overcoming the shakiness of his knees, the feeling like his legs were useless beneath him, as they tended to be in horrible nightmares, when one finds themselves always stumbling, no matter how dire the situation approaching.

And just as Link managed to grasp a sliver of steadiness inside himself, another sound chorused the trickling water and the buzz of death-eating insects; this was a _familiar_ sound. The teen turned back toward the lake of gore, searching for the source of the sound, and his blue eyes locked their focus on the waterfall, not wanting to stray back down to the water below, wanting to avoid that visual altogether.

Somebody was watching. They were watching, and they were laughing, and their laugh was a laugh that Link knew he recognized, but he wished he didn't. (He had hoped with all of his heart that this would be the work of some carnivorous animal that had just gone mad, but no, he wasn't that lucky. This massive grave of cruelty and brutality was the work of somebody who had done this purposefully.)

Even with the soft, haunting laughter bidding his attention, and one hand over his face to block out the smell, Link was still reeling. The color of the waterfall against the surroundings seemed to glow, luminously, but Link dared not look anywhere else, because he couldn't pinpoint the direction from which the laugh was coming from anyway.

The sound of the water's flow being interrupted was what silenced the echo of laughter. The falling water cried out more harshly than before as a figure cut its way through the fall, and stood beneath it, though revealed enough now for Link to look upon; A sleek figure clad in white that just barely showed against his pristine, silvery skin, which now shined, renewed. He peered out from what must have been a hiding hole behind the water fall, his body dripping wet, and his hair fully slicked back against his skull, making him appear even more like some vile serpent, with glaring, black eyes.

This monster from behind the waterfall met eyes with the Hero, smiling in a vicious way that was dreadfully familiar. (Link thought that _he_ was out of the picture. Link thought that he would never be seeing that awful face again, yet here he stood, looking completely untarnished, and untouched as he stepped out fully from the falls, his feet rippling on top of the water's surface, walking on top, as if it were solid.)

Why was he _here_? Why was he even _alive_? Not even Demise had Link crawling in his skin the way this guy had.

"Ah, look who it is!," the figure in white gleefully exclaimed, his arms widespread at the sight of Link, as if he were welcoming an old friend that he hadn't seen in so very long, and couldn't properly express his joy. "I can't say that I'm particularly surprised to see you, because I knew you would come.."

One gloved arm was thrust forward with an erratic movement, a finger being wagged in Link's direction as the vile character speaking lowered his tone to sound as if he were playfully chastising, "..but how very mischievous of you to turn up while I was showering. Your timing always has been like so, hasn't it?"

Link glared, his eyes like blue fire beneath obscuring, blonde tresses as he quickly drew his sword. His own voice came out like a quiet growl, the single word he spoke functioning as confirmation to himself and nothing more. "...Ghirahim."

The Skyloftian boy could say with utmost certainty that Ghirahim was somebody that he absolutely detested. It was Ghirahim's endless chasing after Zelda that had chipped away at Link's kindness, his toleration. There where times he would have been willing to forgive and forget, even despite how this creature made his skin crawl, and despite all the suffering the sword spirit rained down upon Link, on sheer whim. When Ghirahim finally managed to steal Zelda away, intent on feeding her soul to his master, that was when Link undeniably began to -hate- this person. Now, as much as Link wanted to fight it, he could feel a certain twinge of darkness rising up inside his soul, the kind of darkness that begins to consume a person when they go beyond the boundary of hatred, into an emotion that's so strong, and so vivid, that it probably doesn't even have a word to fully describe it.

Link wasn't just angry. He wasn't enraged, or anything else that could be put into words. Maybe, he was just _sickened_. Ghirahim's master was gone; he had no more insidious plots to strive toward completing, so why, why had he done this? Why had he caused so much senseless suffering? What drove him to these horrific lengths?

The being in question was too busily chuckling to himself to care that Link had already readied himself for battle. He wasn't yet very terribly threatened; there was nothing left that Link could possibly spoil, so why should he have cared?

Like an unfeeling, unwavering statue, the boy clad in green stood ready, his feet spaced properly apart, even submerged in bloody water. His sword, despite being one of diminished quality, was held ready, as was the Skyloftian boy's shield. Every now and again, Link let the blade twirl in his left hand, while he watched his enemy, this act warming his hand up for action, loosening his muscles, since Ghirahim clearly wasn't ready to attack.

Disliking the thought of remaining less-than-perfect in front of his company, the sword spirit continued to mostly ignore Link for the sake of taking to his toes on top of the crimson surface of the water. He quickly spun himself round, in a graceful movement, flinging the last shimmering droplets of water from his lithe frame, and he smoothed his hair into place with a well-placed flick of his hand, so that one side fell over half of his face, as usual.

As Ghirahim finished with what he thought was absolutely vital and necessary, he spoke up again, his voice carrying a misplaced purr of affection as he focused upon Link. "Yes, you always come, Hero. You've been always so punctual in the past.. I've even come to rely on this, you see.."

In confusion to what Ghirahim was speaking of, Link narrowed his eyes, trying to keep his focus on his enemy's serpentine features, if only to ignore the gruesome surroundings. (However, his eyes weren't all that he found could betray him as he felt a cold form brush against his leg in the water, and he sharply shifted away with a panicked movement.)

"I know what you're thinking," Ghirahim began, batting his hand as if dismissing a troublesome child, "you want to know why I've done all of this, correct?" The spirit gestured dramatically in observation of the surroundings, lifting his foot to nudge a floating body away from himself, smirking all the while.

"Well," Ghirahim purred sweetly, his voice dripping with malice, "I would say that it was my way of luring you back to me again, or because I wanted to be presentable for you when you arrived, but.. I think I know a better way to explain it; This way, you'll understand the gravity of my reasoning."

Typical of Ghirahim, or as far as Link knew going on past encounters, the sword spirit suddenly dissipated into a flurry of diamond shaped fragments of light, zipping out from any visible spectrum, and remaining gone just long enough to have Link looking here and there, wondering where his enemy would turn up again.

Then, as if he could sense the perfect moment for surprise, Ghirahim reappeared behind the boy he had come to know _so well_. He was indulged in his own sense of pride, feeling he could sense this sky child's emotions, and thoughts, and he could read into the boy's movements so perfectly... And now adorable Link was without that troublesome sword! The evening couldn't get anymore perfect.. Ghirahim_, alone now_, with Link.

The sword spirit moved quickly, flawlessly, before Link could react to his reappearance, and he firmly grasped the sky child by his wrists, yanking him backward with brutal force, holding him in a way that he could not escape, and he felt the boy go rigid in shock, unable to hold himself up as his balance was forcibly thrown off. Link could not keep himself from falling backward, he could not adjust his trajectory with a single movement, nor hope to free himself and move forward, or even to the side, no; all he could do was fall backward, only to find his body braced by the upright form behind him, holding onto him tightly, imprisoning him.

The teen bit back any sound, making not a grunt or growl, or even a demand to be let go; he struggled, not caring if he ended up on his ass in the water. He wouldn't remain in Ghirahim's veryliteral_ clutches_.

"Shhh," the sword spirit shushed. "Don't fret so much, not yet anyway."

Ghirahim probably couldn't be trusted on his reassurances, but even so, Link stilled, though he remained tense, his every muscle taut, wanting to pull him forward, and away from the threat at his back. The feeling of the young male resting so still against him, yet so calm and steady, it was enough to hitch the sword spirit's breath in his throat, and it definitely left him chewing the inside of his cheek, just to find his own focus.

'I could _kill_ him right _now_,' he was thinking. This boy, this child, who he was holding in an inescapable position, was the very one who had ruined his plans.

He didn't care about that right now. His shattered dreams were in the past, and he was living in the present. He was living in the moment where he could practically feel the Hero's blood as it pulsed beneath his skin; he could see it thumping beneath the flesh of his neck, in time with the rush of his heartbeat, the rapidly expanding chest as he breathed deep, threatened gasps of air, barely able to ground himself to this unexpected reality.

The spirit bared his teeth, his lips barely grazing the back of the boy's neck, and a chill went through his skin. He wanted to kill this boy, he wanted it with such force that his gut twisted in excitement knowing that he could slit the wretched boy's throat right here and now. Ghirahim held his teeth together is frustration, feeling as though he might growl like some bloodthirsty beast if he dared open his mouth, yet he couldn't resist letting the very tip of his tongue escape momentarily, just to connect with the Hero's skin for the slightest moment, _just a quick taste_..

He knew better than to tease himself in his thoughts... He couldn't kill this boy, he couldn't... Seeing the child laying motionless and quiet would be so dissatisfying. He hadn't the will to break his own toys, nor to cut himself free of his own selfish, ridiculous desires, nor this addiction, no, no, he couldn't.. He wasn't that strong..

Under his breath, the malicious spirit chuckled in amusement as he lowered his head, letting his chin rest affectionately upon his enemy's shoulder. He wanted to be close enough for Link to hear the seriousness in his tone as he whispered his perceived reasoning behind his actions, behind all the murder he had committed since Demise's defeat. He wanted to pleasure himself with being able to so closely listen to the Hero's blood racing in nervousness.

"You pushed me to my limits, ..Link," he had thought to refer to the boy as 'Sky Child', but the enunciation of the boy's true name slid so sweetly, like irresistible poison, from behind his lips as he breathed it into his little victim's ear, "..because of your ignorance, instead of being destroyed, I was merely left injured, and suffering.. You must have forgotten about me- how cruel of you.. Do you know how long I waited, bleeding and in pain, for you to find me and end it, hm? ..I had no other choice but to restore my own health in the blood of all these innocent creatures, if only so that you'd remember about me... Don't you see, boy?," here, Ghirahim's voice lowered from a sultry purr to a dangerous hiss, "..all this death happened because of -you-."

Without a care, Ghirahim finally released his prisoner, shoving the Hero down with the force of his frustrations, face-forward, so that Link landed, with a splash, down on his hands and knees, immersed in the crimson-dyed water.

The sword spirit brushed stray droplets off himself, guiltless, and unconcerned at how cold his behavior was; he felt strongly that the responsible party should have an up-close and personal view of how much blood had been spilled because of him. Ghirahim chose to stand, laughing in a victorious and twisted manner as he watched the 'almighty hero' momentarily crumple in guilt.

Though it was true to Ghirahim's plan, and Link remained down in the water without moving, feeling the trickles of crimson liquid collecting against his cheeks, and wetting the dirty blonde locks that fell into his face, sticking strands to the skin of his forehead- it wasn't at all for the pleasure of the vile sword spirit. Link's hands clenched the wet dirt of the pond floor between balled fists as he trembled with guilt. His eyes squeezed closed, wanting to block this all out, but even in his mind's eye, he could still see it. It was too late for it to be unseen.

And this was the reason for it all; he failed to end his enemy quickly and mercifully, and because of that failure, now other creatures had suffered and perished. This blood, all of it, was the stain that would forevermore taint Link's very soul. It was more than he could bear.

Conversely, the other individual present was utterly amused at his own lack of morality; Ghirahim allowed his feet to slide down into the water so that he, too, was immersed to the knee, then he bent down to run the tips of his fingers across the top of the blood bath surrounding him, swirling it about, and forming intricate designs that rippled away within seconds. Laughing giddily to himself, pleased and feeling so triumphant, it was as if his previous losses had been entirely forgotten.

When the sword spirit decided to stand back upright, he commenced, again, to dancing about, now submerged in the water, shifting the pool around the pillars of his long, graceful legs, causing ripples to jolt through the entire pond, and sending the collection of bodies floating toward the shore. His bloodied fingers slid into his mouth to be sucked clean, moistening his lips as he pulled his digits from his mouth, those pale lips remaining curved into a malicious grin all the while, endlessly joyful for the most twisted reasons.

With no other choice, Link at last let himself push aside his own guilt, knowing that the vile creature standing over him had to be dealt with first. The Hero could reforge his helpless sorrow into determination, using it to strengthen his focus.

Slowly, Link came back to his feet, the water pouring off of his soaked frame in streams, rippling the pond. The sound echoed around the two who stood submerged in the center of the body of water. Lifting his sword to ready, the Skyloftian boy momentarily fidgeted with the unnatural feel of the different sword in his hand, but nonetheless, he charged toward his opposition.

Link had learned very much about how to fight this particular enemy. He had spent enough time facing off against Ghirahim to equally analyze his movements, and even read into the vile creature's body language, even if the same was true from Ghirahim's perspective concerning the teen.

Normally, the sword spirit either moved in a dainty, cat-like gait, fighting rather gently, fairly, despite his constant threats of immense cruelty. Otherwise, Ghirahim moved with much fiercer tenacity, signaling a certain seriousness of intent, yet when he grew this desperate, he revealed his moves in greater obviousness.

Now was very much like the first time these two had ever fought. Even in water, Ghirahim's strikes were precise, and his dodges were graceful, and fluid. He easily avoided a few swings of the Hero's sword, snickering to himself as he ducked beneath the blade so closely that he could hear the ring of steel in his ears.

The two opponents clashed, the summoned blade grasped firmly, but not overly tense between the sword spirit's elegant fingers, and he fought with it with just as much grace. He and Link seemingly took turns between going on the offensive, and defensive; Each time Ghirahim heightened his own ferocity, he was met with a masterful defense, thanks to a shield which he, himself, lacked. It brought a smile to his face, this fight as pleasurable for him as each one had been against the young Hero.

Nobody could feel what Ghirahim felt when he entangled himself in battle with an opponent he desired. As he was indeed the spirit of a weapon, he had very human-like desires, but his needs could manifest themselves much differently. A weapon lived for battle. It created legacy through bloodshed. It lusted after a worthy opponent the way humans lusted after desirable sexual partners. And when he finally was locked in the passionate heat of conflict, it very closely simulated the feelings and sensations of intimacy.

And when Ghirahim felt himself growing a bit too focused on meeting a finish, a finish that involved the death of his partner, he had to withdraw slightly, not wanting to kill the sky child, no matter how momentarily satisfying it would be. He could place himself into a certain groove of give and take between himself and the young human as they continued their dance, until the moment Link managed to land a blow across the sword spirit's thigh, despite his shortened blade.

Ghirahim hissed, narrowing his eyes though he still licked his lips- He would have to punish his adorable obsession for that. With nimble steps, he lifted himself back onto the surface of the water, gaining not only a significant height difference, but he suddenly was also able to move much more freely, which he took advantage of, rushing at Link with tenacity, purposely landing a blow on the teen's thigh, so that the boy was forced to bite back a cry of pain.

He stepped back, grinning, and traced his long tongue along his blade to lap at the taste of Link's blood on the cold steel. It not only granted him a higher buzz, but it immediately began to heal his wound, even if only slightly.

The young hero looked on, closely watching what he considered to be extremely creepy, on top of disgusting. He'd had enough. He was tired; not tired of the fight, but tired of these games. For all that had happened, the monster that was his opponent honestly seemed to be enjoying this entire scenario, and Link was clueless as to why. He didn't understand anything about Ghirahim. All he knew was that he had to be destroyed, the same as his master. He couldn't be allowed to continue causing so much pain and death.

In a sudden burst of determined strength, Link hastened the speed of his blows, his eyes closely focused on Ghirahim's hands, his arms, his elbows, all of which told what his choice of strike would be, and Link processed it in a matter of seconds, instinctual, fluid, feeling that if he just continued this pace, he'd be given an opportunity to strike Ghirahim's weak spot, now that he knew exactly where it was.

As Link at last began to push Ghirahim back, and he could see the skin between the spirit's brows wrinkle in frustration, Link slashed fiercely, jolting back Ghirahim's blade, then the Hero went in for the final strike, his sword aimed directly for Ghirahim's chest, the opening in his tight clothes serving to aid Link in his aim, showing him where his sword should pierce his enemy.

The sharpened tip of the blade made it almost to its mark, the point separated by mere millimeters from Ghirahim's chest, when the sword spirit captured the tip of the sword between his fingers.

The sword spirit took a relieved breath, his deep, abysmal eyes shifting down to view the reflective iron-silver in his grasp, the starless depths of his gaze leaking darkness, even against the shine of the steel. With a smile, Ghirahim raised his eyes to meet with the fierce blue fire that glared at him with more seriousness than ever before. The sword spirit spoke, however, undaunted. "This blade isn't worthy of either of us.. What can you hope to accomplish against me with such a pathetic weapon?"

With a snicker of mockery, Ghirahim shoved the blade back, choosing to release it, instead of attacking with magic while he held his opponent in a defenseless position, even though he was perfectly capable. No.. He had gone as far as he wished to. He was satisfied.

Link didn't bother considering that his sword had been so easily released. He didn't bother wondering about the absence of the usual struggle to tear his weapon from the vile creature's grasp. He didn't wonder why those magic, hovering blades hadn't come out to threaten him with their foreboding blood-red glow as they twisted to point directly at him.

The only thing the Hero felt, right now, was disgust and hatred for the despicable evil standing before him, and without any consideration for the yielding body language of his enemy, nor the look of acceptance deep in the dark depths of the sword spirit's serpentine eyes, Link drew back to lunge into another jab, putting his blade through his enemy, exactly where he knew to do so.

Ghirahim's lithe frame toppled back, a harsh exhale pushed out from the force of the blow, coughed from his punctured chest, wet with his blood as his body splashed down into the water, drawing Link down to his knees in the pool from the momentum of the strike, and the sucking effect of flesh tightly, immediately enclosing around the sword, not wanting the blade to leave the wound, lest the body suffer blood loss that much quicker. Because of this, the sword remained wholly through the bested enemy, and eventually plunged into the silt beneath the pond as Ghirahim's body was half-immersed, and bloody water soaked both opponents in the violent splash that marked the final moment of their struggle.

It was only as the vile spirit at last laid still in the water, among the floating corpses, that Link bothered to wonder why Ghirahim had opened himself up for that final attack at the last moment.

Blue eyes tinged with confusion watched the glassy black eyes of the one staring up at him. Ghirahim was still conscious, despite how his musculature slackened from his injury, and though he said nothing, the young hero was certain that one corner of the creature's lips upturned slightly as his starless eyes tried to consume and hide away the shine of an unspoken gratitude buried within; they remained like this right up until the moment that they faded, and were hidden behind the spirit's lids.

Link couldn't dwell on what he thought he did or did not see upon his enemy's face; a distraction from his wandering thoughts quickly came in the form of other worries. Though Ghirahim's chest was still impaled by Link's sword, it fought against the steel, moving up and down with labored inhales and exhales.

Link gaped at this occurrence, completely befuddled and entirely confused at how Ghirahim could possibly still breathe, or still be -alive-, like _this_. Link was unsure if he withdrew his blade too quickly at that point because he wanted to see if it changed anything, or if it was because he honestly felt guilty for leaving it in the body of a living creature, forcing Ghirahim to simply endure it, no matter how evil he was.

This hasty movement was one the young hero came to regret, or at least curse himself for momentarily. The instant he tugged his sword back, he jostled the water surrounding Ghirahim's fallen form so that it splashed upon him. And there, at that very second, Link realized his enemy's secret for returning back to health- It was what he had been talking about when he mentioned reviving himself in blood.

As the bloody water seeped into the wound in the spirit's chest, it immediately began to patch the opening, working to heal the visible injury. The young hero sharply bit his lower lip, at a loss concerning what he was supposed to do, even as he sheathed his sword, and began to lift his fallen enemy from the blood-streaked pond up onto his back.

He had no idea what he was doing. He just moved without questioning his own actions. He did whatever he could, because he knew now that there was surely more he would have to do.

He would just have to find that out as he went.

:: ::

/..To be continued../

::

It might have been a strange time for the Hero to have such a thought, but just like the very wildfire of his imagination, at this exact moment, despite being tangled in battle with the fiercest opponent he had yet faced in his short journey, something -else- was troubling him!

He kept his sword raised, tightly grasping his shield for defense, and even though he was staring directly into the creepy face of the person who called himself a 'demon lord', Link was looking right through him. Something much more troubling was teasing his thoughts.

He just remembered something, but he wasn't sure one way or the other.. Had he-.. Had he left the oven on? What if he had? All of Skyloft would be ablaze by now!

Suddenly, Link panicked, his brows pulling together in worry. He wanted to get back to Skyloft in a rush, just in case there was still time to save it! Even if he only found out that he hadn't actually left the oven on, or that somebody else had turned it off in time, he would give anything just to have the relief of that knowled- 'WHAP!'

Link stumbled to his knees from the force of the blow that had been aimed directly at his face. His eyes watered from the sting against his cheek as his fingers delicately traced the hot soreness of what was certain to develop into a hand-shaped welt.

With a certain whimper to his voice, though he tried to stay tough and reserved, he looked up at his much taller opponent in offense as he addressed him harshly, "Did you just...-backhand- me?" (What kind of bad guy just went around backhanding his opponents? For that matter, why didn't he just use his sword?)

Coyly, Ghirahim grinned down at the soft, young toy-whoops, the soft, young -boy- that was on his knees before him, glaring up with a hurt pride and glassy, blue doll-eyes that shined with unshed tears. "Actually," he began, his voice smooth and sultry, "that was not just a backhand, it was much more than that! That was a -bitchslap-."

Link grunted in displeasure, before growling words of offense. "I'm -not- a bitch!"

Here, Ghirahim grinned menacingly, licking his lips as his black eyes stared down at the child with something less-than-innocent. "That is where you're wrong. In fact, if you don't start paying closer attention, you will not only be a bitch, you'll be -my- bitch."

::

[_Someone tell Link that he doesn't have an oven._]

::


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello all readers; I just wanted to thank you all again for the reviews, favorites, alerts, etc. Thank you all so much. Please enjoy the new chapter, even though it isn't very action-y. Also, please remember to vote for this fic as your favorite on my profile-poll, so I can continue to update it each Thursday. =)_

_Enjoy!_

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><p>::<p>

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Ragged puffs of air ghosted over the pointed tip of Link's left ear; it had been a constant for at least an hour, it was still so painful to listen to, to feel. The sound was pitiful- it filled the young Skyloftian with guilt, though he reassured himself that he wasn't at fault.

Those breaths forced themselves in and out of a damaged chest, each one sounding as if it would surely be the very last one. They were so utterly pained, despite the unconscious state of the one on Link's back. But even though it sounded as if the sword spirit was clinging to life by a thread, Link knew better, and that only really made matters worse.

Ghirahim's larger form draped painfully heavy overtop of the Hero's back, the sheer dead weight utterly torturous as Link fought to keep it balanced, while also fighting his way back through Faron Woods, toward the Sealed Grounds. The blonde teen hunched forward, supporting his fallen enemy, and he struggled to endure the ache up his spine which felt it may soon become debilitating. He tried to ignore the burning, stinging complaints of his legs as he forced himself to take each next step.

Link wanted to ignore all these inconveniences, but honestly, he preferred the exhaustion to his nervousness. While the sword spirit was mostly still in his state of injury, every now and again, a bit of rigidity would return to him, and he would shift just slightly. Every time this happened, Link felt his heart start pounding hard enough that it jumped into his throat. He tried to focus through it, hoping beyond all hope that Ghirahim would not awaken. (Even if it turned out that the spirit was incapable of moving his body, he could probably still manage to cause Link a shiver, given that his head was rested on the teen's shoulder.)

The young hero finally found himself climbing the last hill between himself and the temple on the Sealed Grounds; he had been forced to make his way around some obstacles, but now his strength was replenished by a tiny fraction, just knowing he was so close.

As Link came over that final grassy slope, looking toward the grayish-white stone of the temple, which was traced with intricate veins of ivy along its cracked walls, the Hero caught sight of two familiar faces, though the look in their eyes immediately had him hesitating, and stopping in his tracks.

Zelda and Groose stood waiting before the entrance to the temple; Link locked eyes with neither of them, but he could see their surprised expressions, and the horror that was clear on both of their faces.

Regardless, for all their shock, the duo spared no time in rushing to Link, their body language familiar and trusting, beyond the initial confusion. Link knew that his two friends probably didn't know what to think, yet were also thinking far too many things at once- That was unnerving enough, but even more so was wondering what ideas must have been most loud in their minds.

'Are you crazy, Link? Why did you bring this monster here? Why isn't he dead? Why are you carrying his weight on your shoulders as if he were some friend in need?'; Link was already hunched, but he lowered his head even further, so that his blonde bangs fell over his eyes. He didn't want to see the looks on their faces anymore. He didn't want to see their scornful, nervous fear.

He didn't want to bring them into this either... but he had no other choice.

For the young girl present, the familiar appearance of the creature on her friend's back was horrid enough that she had placed her hand over her lips to hide that she was gaping. But she was even further horrified at Link's appearance- His green tunic, as well as everything else, seemed to be endlessly splashed in dark patches of dried and indistinguishably colored reddish-blackish-brown. Even Link's hair seemed to be matted with what could only be blood, and Zelda dared not imagine how so much came to cover Link, or worse, _whose_ it could even be.

Zelda feared that Link may be hurt terribly. That was far worse to consider than anything to do with the character on Link's back. (Though, she was nervous about him beyond proper explanation. Still, she trusted Link enough to know he probably wouldn't have brought Ghirahim here, if there were any real danger.)

"The Kikwi wasn't lying," the young girl uttered, her voice laced with a nervous tremor, "there really had been a dire problem." Zelda spoke these words while her eyes traced over the ghastly creature on her friend's back, unable to look away for a moment. Seeing him again brought her back to that horrible day, in her memory; so much fear, so much pain, and too painfully vivid a reflection.

"Groose.." Link spoke, his voice muffled by the strain of exhaustion, "can you please take him? He's really heavy.."

Luckily, Groose had assumed that Ghirahim was dead. This was something that Link was grateful for, because even though the larger male seemed entirely disgusted, he still did as Link asked, noting his friends dire need of assistance over everything else.

Link was breathless, and every muscle in his body ached, trembling from overuse, but he managed to quietly bid that Groose take Ghirahim inside, and lay him down.

The tall, red-haired Skyloftian, after relieving Link of his charge, turned to hurry toward the temple alone, unaccompanied by the two others. Link remained where he stood, bent over, hands on his knees as he let his chest deeply expand and contract, then he swallowed, wetting his throat as it grew dry with his panting; he could hardly believe he managed to carry Ghirahim so far.

Zelda remained positioned quietly before her friend, still troubled with her concerns about Link. She watched him, her kind, blue eyes tracing over his tired frame, thinking that he still looked exactly the same as he had just a few weeks ago, back when they were still just two carefree kids of Skyloft, and Link was nothing more than a kind, but naive boy with his head in the clouds. How had he managed to come so far without shattering? How was it that he looked so unchanged?

"Are you hurt?," Zelda quietly asked, thinking Link had caught up enough to speak. She watched Link as he shook his head, his face angled toward the ground, his messy blonde hair concealing his countenance, hiding him.

Link had almost forgotten about his wounded leg, though he quickly remembered when his stare fell upon the tear in his loosely-fitting pants. His fingers investigated, opening the cut material up just enough to examine the actual injury. Any pain had been masked with adrenalin, and then everything else that was hurting on the way back. "..just this small scratch. I'm fine."

"..but," Zelda almost hadn't a clue what she even wanted to ask or get at; the words just came out. "Are you _okay_?"

Again, Link nodded without even looking up- This didn't comfort Zelda in the slightest, and she reached out to him, placing gentle fingertips against her friend's cheek, guiding him to raise his head so that she could look him in the face.

This was when Zelda, at last, found the change in Link that she had been so afraid to see.

There, deep in his eyes, was the sign of his breaking spirit. In her memory, the boy she knew laid with his back against the grass, and his feet dangling into Skyloft's waterhole, while he gazed up into the endless blue skies above, his own deep, oceanic eyes reflective and vivid enough to shine in the light. Zelda remembered that she used to be able to see herself in Link's eyes, if she looked closely enough.

Now, though, they had faded; dulled. It was hard to explain, but she knew she could see it. Now, Link's eyes were like those of an old, tired doll, the glassy, colorful surface scratched from years of wear and tear, sad and lonely, remembering how they used to be when they were new.

"Are you sure you're fine?," she asked again, not knowing why she even tried. She knew the answer to her own question. She also knew that, even with the best intentions, Link would lie to her. He did it over and over again.

Zelda finally gave in, and just nodded her head in acceptance of what her friend was telling her, and they followed after Groose.

:: ::

::

"Heeeey," Link and Zelda were greeted by the sound of Groose's voice, loudly calling, "Hey, Link.. This guy is still breathing!"

While Groose clearly had his nerves pulled taut in finding out that Ghirahim was actually alive, Link was well aware, and panicked no more now than he had all the way here. He came over to where Groose had laid Ghirahim, sparing the sword spirit a casual glance before he found himself turning away easily, and meandering off to rest on a stool that waited nearby.

The old wood squeaked in discomfort beneath Link's weight, but the teen settled himself here, regardless. He was so tired, he soon had his body and head reclined against the stony wall at his back. After taking a deep breath, and noting that Groose was not eased in the slightest, despite seeing that Link seemed calm, the blonde teen decided to start explaining why he had brought Ghirahim here.

"I don't know how to kill him."

"What?," Groose's reaction was instantaneous.

"Don't worry," Link calmly reassured, "He's too weak to cause any trouble right now."

At first, Zelda appeared just as tense as Groose in regards to having Ghirahim in the same room. He was like a monster from her nightmares, but she was able to shake off such feelings, holding steady to the strength inside herself, over everything else. She had faced these dangers in the past, and if Link thought things were safe for now, she trusted him. She walked past where Ghirahim lay, her light eyes flickering down to look over him, and indeed, he seemed injured beyond any further struggle. He was quiet, still, his arms appearing to naturally find their way up to cross over his chest in his sleep, concealing his injury, and just like any other person, it was obvious that Ghirahim could feel as much pain as any of them.

Zelda didn't let her eyes linger, instead, she scurried past, and continued over to Link. She was quiet, and withdrawn as she walked, her fair countenance reflecting a certain seriousness, and hiding the strange sensation that passed through her for but a second. She couldn't explain it, but a sudden twinge of pity, and guilt felt as if it streamed into her heart, aching in her chest, then just as quickly, it faded away and she resumed her previous course of action; this involved kneeling next to Link to get a better look at his 'scratch'.

"Let me look at that," she spoke softly, her voice calm and serious. The gentle sound of her voice broke the tense silence, and no matter what it was she said, the sound alone put both boys more at ease.

After observing the cut across Link's thigh, Zelda winced subtly at its deepness, unsure how Link could call it 'just a scratch'. She sighed, finding focus inside herself, and she closed her eyes as she tapped into her slowly developing, sacred strength. Her hands hovered over Link's leg, nothing happening for the first few seconds, until at last the silence of concentration fell over the young girl, and a soft, pale light emanated from her palms, and began to seal the clean cut. (She was thankful that it was such a neat injury, or else she might be powerless to do much.)

Finishing, she nodded to Link with a gentle smile, then came gracefully back to her feet as Link softly thanked her.

Link now straightened, his eyes flickering between Groose and Zelda, and he again attempted to explain his actions. He had to admit, even he was confused as to why he did this, but just as much, there was nothing _else_ he could have done. He couldn't have left Ghirahim alone. That wouldn't have solved anything.

"Like I said, I don't know how to kill him. I'm aware of his weak point, but as you can see, even with a wounded chest, he doesn't die. He isn't like us.. Because he's actually a sword, he's different," Link explained.

"Duh-wait," Groose interrupted, "He's a sword?"

"Well..," Link paused, unsure how to explain this. Groose, like most people, was used to swords being quiet, inanimate objects, and because of that, Link knew how this sounded. "..He is a spirit that inhabits a sword."

"Similar to your sword, Link?," Zelda added. She had meant, however, the sword Link _used to_ have, as the Master Sword was no longer his to wield. "..and the young woman who was part of it?" (Now, again, Zelda had that strange tingling sensation in her chest, along with a remnant of a memory flashing in her mind. It was bright with golden light, and difficult to decipher, but even though she couldn't visually perceive the images, she suddenly felt the sensation of a sword in her own hand, lifting it, and bringing it down upon somebody. Then, once more, it was gone in a flash, and she was left trying to shake it from her mind.)

"Right." The sound of Link's voice drew the young girl back to reality, and she looked up at him as he continued to speak, "He is a bit like that, though Fi was created by the goddess and placed inside the sword."

An intriguing thought came to mind as he finished speaking; Link allowed himself to ponder it as silence fell between himself and his two friends. If Fi was created by the goddess, and placed inside a sword, did that mean that Demise created Ghirahim in the same way? Were demons even capable of the same feats as divine beings?

This truly bothered Link as he considered it, but since there was no conclusion that he could come to, he got lost in the reflection that followed. He recalled his fight with Demise, and what Ghirahim's blade had looked like; the jaggedness of the blade, and the inky, black coloration of the steel- It certainly looked like something a demon would create and wield. That sword was so large, and heavy; Link couldn't forget the feeling of it as it bashed against his defenses. He was sure, at that time, that the sheer force could have broken his arm at any moment.

He could also remember how difficult Ghirahim's blade was to focus on, and that probably was something Demise had been counting on. In the darkness of that dimension, the tainted steel moved like a shadow, blending into the black surroundings, and so often Link found himself blocking slashes that he hadn't even known were coming, out of sheer instinct.

Then he remembered one other thing; He remembered pushing forward, swinging the master sword with determination, hearing the ring of sharpened steel in the air, and then the more massively threatening whoosh of the larger sword. The two swords met with a brutal clang, sparks flying off the razor-edges as they met, and then a streak of lightning lit up the sky, and Link caught sight of one small beacon of light that marred the shadowy blackness that was Ghirahim's sword. He had focused upon that flicker of reddish-gold throughout the rest of the battle, using it to help him watch the sword through the dark.

And though he hadn't considered it before, as Link began to remember it, it seemed very curious. That mark that seemed to glow through the dark, and had helped him read into Demise's movements.. It was the crest of the Goddess Hylia. The Triforce... But why would a blade created by a demon bear such a marking?

Link finally found himself sighing; his memories proved to be very thought provoking, but none of it helped him come to any decent conclusion. Really, he supposed he had too much information flooding his mind to focus on any one thing. "..I wish Fi were still here," he mumbled in a melancholy tone, "she would know the answer."

Zelda nodded to Link, at first, but hung her head immediately after, a morose expression staining her countenance. "..or Impa. She would probably know what to do, too."

Finally, the saddened spirit of the other two Skyloftians settled over Groose as well. He hunched, his shoulders sagging, and his lips set themselves into a distinct frown. (Even his hair seemed to hang lower.) "..yeah. The old gal seemed like she knew everything."

"If it hadn't been for their guidance," Link spoke softly, "we would have all been ducking in fear, completely clueless, as the world came to be shrouded in darkness."

"It's frightening," Zelda mumbled, though her face was very serious, and her eyes gazed off into nothing, angled toward the floor. She could lean her faith on her own memories as Hylia, knowing that plans had been laid down, and that everything had come together to serve a purpose.. but sometimes she still felt like a helpless little girl, and she couldn't stop herself from wondering how everything came to work out so smoothly, like gears in some intricately built machine. How had it been possible?

When the young girl's eyes drifted back up, she found herself looking upon Ghirahim, who was laying quietly nearby. If she, as the goddess, had lain her plans out so neatly, so perfectly.. Then why was it that this one loose end still remained untied? Had she not thought to deal with Ghirahim? ..or was this something she just had yet to realize?

"So..," the sound of Groose's voice rang out, gathering the attention of the other two, as he had finally thought of something reasonable, "..if this guy is a sword, and his body can't be killed.. maybe the sword itself has to be destroyed?"

;

_[Dearest readers;_

_I apologize for the rudely abrupt interruption in the flow of the reading material that you are currently enjoying. However, I feel it is only appropriate that I give you all a momentary pause for any of those who wish to applaud Groose. He -actually managed- to piece together a logical suggestion! He deserves some recognition and appreciation._

_Thank you for your patience. Please resume.]_

;

"But where is his sword?," Zelda asked, turning to Link, the question clearly meant for him to answer.

With disappointment apparent, the young hero could only shake his head in return. "After Ghirahim resurrected Demise, he pulled the sword out of Ghirahim's chest. Then, when Demise was defeated, the sword disappeared; That's why I assumed that Ghirahim was destroyed, along with Demise. ..In any case, I really don't know the circumstances of how the sword was pulled from Ghirahim. It could be hidden, and his body acts as a gate from which it can be teleported, since he, himself, can teleport.. Or, it could just be that it is hidden within his spirit, and if that is the case, how should we get it out?"

"Ugg!," Groose growled in frustration, shaking his fists to aid him in dispelling his irritation, "Just when I thought I was onto something, another dead end!"

Feeling rested enough, Link lifted himself from the stool, and dusted himself off slightly. It was getting late, and if he wasted anymore time, dusk would come to shroud Faron Woods. He didn't want to waste any time, knowing that Ghirahim would be healing himself while he was idling. The blonde teen glanced over toward the fallen sword spirit; in only a week's time after Demise's defeat, Ghirahim had managed to heal himself, and murder dozens of forest inhabitants. The time frame was much too narrow to waste a single hour.

"Link?," the young girl spoke up, her clear, aquamarine eyes peering in the direction of her friend. Link turned his own eyes to meet hers, seeing the questioning within.

"I'm not going to fail again," Link declared, though not so much in a heroic voice as it was a simple, modest statement, laced with some steady determination, "I'm going to go back into Faron Woods to inform the Kikwi that the danger is over for now. While I'm there, I'll visit a wise friend, and see if she can offer any advice."

"Are you sure that you're up to it?," Zelda asked, concern audible in her tone.

Link shrugged, "I don't have any other choice. I can't give Ghirahim time to heal, or things could become dangerous. And... As well, it wouldn't be fair to make him suffer like this any longer than he has to, regardless of whether he's evil or not."

Groose scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I think he deserves it."

Zelda looked between Link and Groose, but gave her head a soft shake. "No, Link's right. If we can't show our enemies compassion, then we're no better."

Softly, Link nodded, while Groose just waved his hand in a dismissive manner, but begrudgingly admitted that Zelda was right.

"Actually," Link quietly piped up, "Zelda, would you mind if I spoke to Groose alone for a moment?"

Easily enough, Zelda nodded her head, and turned to saunter toward the front entrance of the temple. When she disappeared out the large door, into the garden out front, Link wandered nearer to where Ghirahim had been laid. Groose came to stand at his side, curious to know what it was Link needed Zelda to leave in order to discuss.

"What is it, Link?" Groose asked, his voice mildly concerned.

The blonde male crouched down, tucking his fingers beneath the leather top of his boot, and he drew out a small dagger from a tiny sheath of leather hidden inside his shoe. He had asked Zelda to leave, because he didn't want her to be forced to listen to what he was about to tell Groose. As he came to stand upright, Link held the dagger out to Groose, placing it into the taller male's hand.

"While I'm gone, watch him closely, alright?," Link explained in a quiet, serious tone. He continued, elaborating on the purpose of the dagger, since Groose was eyeing it with curious hesitance. "If he revives and he starts moving, don't hesitate to use that. Stab him in the center of the chest, exactly where you can see that he is wounded now."

Neither Link nor Groose were particularly pleased at this; Link heard himself speaking, but could hardly believe the harsh way his words sounded. Groose, as well, was a bit on the shaky side when it came down to stabbing anything other than targets. (Or maybe he was just nervous that Ghirahim would slice his head off more quickly than he could put the blade in his chest. Or maybe he was wondering when Link became so.. Brutal. If he ever dared to call Link 'Stink' again, the shorter male would probably put a blade in _his_ chest without any hesitation! Scary!)

Queasiness aside, Groose set his face into a determined scowl, looking more comical than anything else, then he swore to do whatever was necessary to make sure Zelda was kept safe, and not to let this guy get another chance at hurting her.

A soft smile and nod was offered from Link, in return. That expression quickly changed, however, when he looked back down at Ghirahim, the smile shifting into a saddened frown. The sword spirit was still breathing in the same labored, ragged way as he had when he was on Link's back, and his entire body seemed to tense in agony with each breath. Link had left him to suffer through this once before, and now again, because of his ignorance. It was regretful..

"I don't think he plans to hurt Zelda now, he has no reason for it," the young Skyloftian boy quietly uttered, not even thinking about what he was saying. He quickly shook his head, and decidedly reiterated, "No, he would hurt Zelda.. He would do it out of spite. He would do it for satisfaction.. I don't know what I was thinking."

(Obviously, Link wasn't thinking about the Kikwi. He was now.)

"Regardless," he continued, again, "..be sensible. Only use the dagger if he tries to escape, or if he moves, especially if he looks like he is going to snap his fingers."

"Sure, Link, I can handle it," Groose finally cut in, noting that Link was decently nervous leaving Ghirahim with them, "Don't worry. It's under control," he assured, with a nod and a smile.

Link nodded in return, and thanked Groose, then he hurriedly went on his way, back into Faron Woods.

:: ::

::

Even for all Link's previous heroics, the Kikwi had seemed almost shocked in knowing that the danger had been handled so quickly. They weren't yet ready to leave the safety of their age-old fortress; Link assumed they had just grown comfortable enough there to stay for a bit longer. That was for the best, probably. Who was Link to say that Ghirahim wouldn't escape his clutches, and come back to terrorize the forest race further?

The young hero was discontent at his reflections, after leaving the Kikwi behind. Bucha must have noticed the tired sound in Link's voice as he explained things, but maybe he just assumed that it was what anybody would seem like after such a battle, or after witnessing such horrors? Maybe he concluded that Link was mourning for their losses, and for the work they had ahead of them, retrieving all of their fallen clan members, and handling sending the victims off to everlasting peace.

Yes, Link had considered all of these things, but something about his own complex emotions had been stretched thin, and he was hoping that nothing further needed his attention beyond this one last situation. The idea of being a hero forever was.. stressful. Link was as distressed as anybody in knowing that bad things would continue to happen in the world, no matter what, but.. He was only human, and even he could be selfish. It wasn't his place to be everybody's hero.

Sometimes he even questioned the motives of the goddess; why had she chosen him for this? Didn't she consider that he might have been too young? Too inexperienced? Too soft? Or was that the exact reason that he fit the bill perfectly..? He was just a boy who longed to save his friend, and he would take on any responsibility that came along with that, because he was loyal, and because he cared. He was _too_ _nice_. He cared _too_ _much_.

Slowly, Link had started to hate those slight details about himself.

The teen shook his head, trying to rid himself of his wandering thoughts. A gloved hand stroked along the back of his magnificent crimson loftwing, and it cooed at its master's affection. Link softly smiled, his heart calmed by the serene feeling of soaring through the sky, free and at ease. He wanted to live the same way he flew; simple, free, his thoughts untroubled, his mind dreaming, while his body held onto the feeling of the moment, operating on pure instinct.

Link had returned to the sky for the purpose of descending straight down to the waterfall at Lake Floria. He was nearing the column of light at which he would dive from the back of his other closest friend. One hand gently clasped the reins, while Link's other hand remained against the soft, downy feathers between his loftwing's strong shoulders. His fingertips could feel the skin beneath the crimson down, the muscles that moved smoothly with his mount's extended wingspan as it rode the air drafts beneath it. The blonde teen gave the avian creature a scratch of everlasting gratitude, respectfully thanking the powerful bird for aiding him in his travels. Then, as the part in the clouds became clear, Link rolled from the back of his mount, and drifted down, back toward the surface.

After the long descent to the surface, Link came to land himself softly upon a platform amidst the open area of the Floria waterfall. He carefully tucked his sailcloth away, making sure to treat it delicately, so to keep it from too much wear and tear, then he took a few steps toward the crystalline water of the surrounding area, and dove in gracefully.

The water here was fresh and clear, and it always seemed to be a tolerably warm temperature, exposed to plenty of sunlight from above. The sun was captured in ripples on the water's surface and wiggles of light danced along the sandy, white bottom of the pool, while the sound of the falls echoed loudly beneath the water's surface, a deep, consistent roar that eventually faded into the background. Every sensation rushed together and meshed into the breathless, weightless feeling of peace as Link was engulfed, and he kicked his feet to carry himself along to the next platform.

With a gulp of air as he came to the top, Link reached and pulled himself up a wall of vines that had been growing, and happily sipping the water along the edge of the walkway. The teen was much heavier than usual because he was soaking wet, and he could feel his arms and shoulders trembling tiredly from the day's 'adventures', but he got himself to the top of the platform without issue. He didn't bother waiting around for the water to drip from his clothes and boots, because he knew he would be getting wet all over again. He did brush back his wet hair as it clung to his face, and droplets of water rolled down his forehead and into his eyes.

Blinking to adjust his eyes to a sudden darkness, the Skyloftian ventured from the vibrant sun outside, into the cave-like opening that led into the chamber of the Water Dragon. The walk was short, the air inside the cavern cool, and moist against the teen's wet frame, though a soft breeze moved gently through the tight orifice in the wall, the air from within the hidden chamber warmer, almost like a soft breath being exhaled by the very structure, itself.

Link walked out from the tunnel, coming to stand upon a rounded shelf of stone just before the cave. This particular entrance came into the room at the Water Dragon's back, but her long, scaly body could be seen twisting in the clear water surrounding her as she turned herself slightly to regard the human that had come to visit. She had surely sensed Link's presence before he arrived, perhaps even as he descended nearby, and now she greeted him gladly, beckoning him closer.

With a nod, Link leaped from the ledge, and down into the deep, crystal-blue beneath. His body descended with a splash, bubbles racing noisily past his ears as he sank down near the bottom, and kicked his feet against the sand, stirring up a white cloud that he quickly swam free from. The other small occupants of the chamber flitted past him easily, much more at home in the water than the human.

Rounding a stone pillar, Link easily came upon a set of stairs that dipped beneath the water, and he ascended to a round area of grassy earth just before the water dragon. At the center of the platform was a circle of stone that was positioned beneath an ocular opening in the top of the chamber, from which sun poured in. The teen had always come to stand here; he wasn't sure if this functioned to illuminate the dragon's guests, or simply to help them dry off.

"Ahh, the Goddess's Hero has come to visit."

Link looked up to respectfully regard the wise dragon as she addressed him, letting his neck bend forward momentarily in a show of manners. When he looked back up, he was glad to observe that the dragon appeared pleased enough to be seeing him again.

"I had been seething in my scales, knowing of the recent stir in Faron Woods, but," she smiled down at Link, watching the tiny human with large, dark eyes, "seeing that you've returned brings me some relief."

"Then you must already know, as well," Link began,"..that this very stir is the reason I've come to you now."

Ducking her claws deeply inside the sleeves of her blue robes, the dragon bent her long neck and crested head in a nod. "I had come to that conclusion indeed," she assured the young hero, "However, it seems you've more closely addressed the issue than I have. I had yet to lift a claw, hoping that my intervention wouldn't be necessary, and so I've no idea what the cause of this terrible occurrence was."

Link stared up at the dragon with a grave expression, knowing that she surely would not be pleased at the mention of _certain names_. Still, he did not hesitate. "You remember the one who attacked you before.. The sword spirit, Ghirahim?"

Almost instantly, the surrounding waters grew choppy, tiny waves sloshing against the cave-like walls, and twirling about the room in a spiral. The soft sound of the churning water was merely the chorus to a seething growl that was emitted from the water dragon. "Yes," she hissed, clearly still bitter, "..that wretched creature."

Maintaining his calm composure, as well as his most serious tone, Link continued, "He was the one responsible for what happened.. I had been asked to investigate the recent disappearances in the forest by the Kikwi, and found that he was behind..," Here, Link seemed to hesitate, his mind jumping back to the scene that was still fresh in his subconscious, "..a horrific act of brutality."

"Of course," came another hiss from the dragon, her tone full of spite, "that would be his lot."

Not wanting to falter, Link remembered the reason he had come to the water dragon, and he continued, "I was able to defeat Ghirahim in battle, but I'm at a loss as to how he can be destroyed. Despite my efforts, he still lives. That's why I've come to you, hoping for advice."

"Hmmm," A hum of contemplation echoed out in the enclosed space, and the water dragon swished her long tail behind her in thought, "Indeed," she spoke up at last, "..he would be much more complicated to dispense than the demon king. It is possible to bring about the death of an immortal creature, but even I faced this very dilemma- All immortal creations of the Goddess are protected by her divine light, so his destruction would be a bit more involved."

While the water dragon spoke in a tone that was unfazed and natural, her words hit Link with the heavy weight of realization. With a soft gasp, his blue eyes shot up to gaze at the dragon in disbelief. Actually, it was more in surprise, the kind one feels when they are suddenly made aware of something they had unconsciously come to suspect, but didn't wish to believe could possibly be true.

These words practically knocked the breath from the young hero, and he suddenly found it most difficult to verbalize anything in recognizable language, "..pardon?," he managed, "..a creation of the goddess?"

For one single moment, the water dragon blinked in confusion, unsure why the boy standing before her seemed so surprised. She could immediately see the shadow of guilt forming in the innocent depths of his eyes, however, and realized her own mistake. "Ohhhh," the dragon hissed to herself, "I should have worded that differently."

Yes, indeed, she could see the uncertainty welling up in Skyloftian boy. She could see doubt coming to shroud the child's very being, and she inwardly cursed herself. The boy might have been the Goddess's chosen hero, but as such, he was also a delicate being of complete purity, and merciful feelings that could compare to Hylia, herself.

Heaving a regretful sigh, the dragon continued speaking, hoping to keep the blonde teen from questioning himself any further. "Yes, it's regretfully and shamefully true- Ghirahim was created by the goddess Hylia," she explained, "For some reason or another, he fell from her favor upon his very creation, and was sent to live among mortal creatures, seemingly without purpose. The Goddess never made it clear as to why she made him; she never even made it clear to us. I simply concluded to myself that Ghirahim was a mistake, an imperfect being that escaped into the world unfinished, and that Hylia never made an effort to destroy him out of sheer pity, even though he's been causing chaos since his birth."

Link raised his eyes back up to look upon the dragon as she spoke, but the troubling torrent that had begun in his heart was not soothed in the slightest; if anything, a wave of immense pity was added to the mix, upon hearing the dragon further explain. He was left to wonder if the unsteadiness he had been feeling lately had been caused by the unconscious sense that he had raised his hand to a creature that was not born of darkness.

And.. If it hadn't bothered him enough at the time it happened, now Link was left further questioning the final moment of his last fight against Ghirahim. The sword spirit had opened himself up to the finishing blow. He had stood with utter steadiness as his chest was left unprotected, and Link plunged his sword in without a drop of hesitance.

"Don't fret so much, child," the water dragon spoke up in a wise tone, her voice hardened and demanding, "You shouldn't let this knowledge trouble you. That creature's spirit is wretched and defiled. He may as well be classed the same as any other demon. Save yourself the guilt, and think of him in this manner."

Link could think of nothing to say. He didn't want to say anything. He didn't doubt the words of the water dragon. He knew Ghirahim was a despicable, loathsome creature. He nodded his head, agreeing.

"He must be destroyed. You know that as well as I do. You know because you've seen what horrors he is capable of."

Again, Link merely nodded in return.

Thinking she had now gotten through the young hero's faltering spirit, the dragon continued in explaining what was important, "Regardless.. He cannot be destroyed the same as any typical creature of darkness, no matter how tainted his soul. The protection of the goddess shields him. The only way you will be able to destroy him is by destroying the weapon which houses his soul."

"I thought that might have been the answer," Link spoke softly, letting the dragon know he had already figured as much, "But I haven't a clue where to find his blade."

With a nod, the dragon carefully began to fill in the missing details for the young hero. "He, without a doubt, has his own blade. His visible body is merely a protective sheath that houses and hides his sword, keeping it from harm. He can be damaged to his weakest point an infinite amount of times, but he will always regain his strength, each and every time. He can even withstand having his blade shattered to pieces," she paused, seeming to regard her own words with a hint of anger. The sheer amount of power that Ghirahim possessed left her feeling truly livid. "As long as any one piece of his blade remains intact, the magic imbued into the sword will regrow the full blade and he will be restored once again."

Even Link was startled as the dragon spoke of the spirit's seemingly everlasting grip on life. The teen was only human, and he was shaken enough in knowing that Ghirahim could keep breathing with a punctured chest. The boy was used to considering life as something delicate and easily broken. He wouldn't admit, though, that he was somewhat amazed, while at the same time.. he thought this also seemed a bit torturous. How must it have been to keep living through painful, horrible things that would kill a human being and release them from suffering?

The teen shook his head, refocusing as he spoke up in question. "Do you know what can be done, then, to keep him from restoring himself?"

"Oh, I do..," the dragon sighed, her voice and even her posture slumping slightly in worry, or perhaps disbelief, "..but it will be most taxing. I don't even know if you can accomplish it, alone."

The young hero furrowed his brow, setting his own expression with determination, the same kind that had driven him far enough to defeat the demon king. He stood firmly before the water dragon- He wasn't standing tall, because he would always be tiny to her, but.. Hopefully it reassured her. He could handle it. He had to. "Don't worry," he spoke with an immense steadiness in his voice, "I'll do what I must."

"I hope so, Hero," came the dragon's response. Indeed, her tone was hopeful, as her words suggested. She wanted to doubt herself, knowing that she hadn't believed that Link could best Demise, either, and the tiny human had proven her wrong.

With nothing more to say, the dragon took a deep breath, and began to lay out the process for Link, "First, you should render Ghirahim completely harmless and unable to restore his strength. Have the goddess's incarnation bless a blade, and thrust it into his core. While he may be a creation of the goddess, his energies are still that of darkness, and the holy light from the blade will purge him of any strength. Once he is completely powerless, his sword can be summoned from within, and pulled from his chest against his will."

Link openly appeared to flinch at this information, so much so that the dragon paused to ask him if her instructions had been clear, and that he was capable of what she had told him. He just nodded to her politely, and bid her to go on.

"During the next step, you must take great caution, as you will have to throughout the rest of this process. Ghirahim's blade is extremely volatile. Not many mortals can endure an extended subjection to its evil aura, and that is no exaggeration. Even with his spirit weakened, Ghirahim's blade can function all on its own. It's blood-stained aura can latch onto the deepest, darkest emotions hidden within the mortal mind, even the smallest impurity, and it can use these to bring about its own revival through bloodshed. You had best take this very seriously; this is a fact that is written into history, in blood, which that sword is responsible for."

As she spoke, the dragon lowered her head to look more closely upon the human boy, peering deeply into his eyes, just to be certain that he was entirely serious about this. Luckily, he did appear to be, his expression wholly attentive and even stern, despite his innocent naivety. Link nodded to the dragon amidst her pause, showing that he was ready for her to continue.

"In order to properly seal away the blade's aura, you must cut wood from a holy tree, and have a sheath fashioned for the blade, as well as a small chest. The blade must be cut after you've obtained the wood, so to fit the sheath. The pieces cut from the blade must be sealed in the chest. "

"Pardon?," Link interrupted as politely as he could, "..Holy tree? Do you mean the Great Tree?"

"No," the dragon answered, "There is another forest beyond Faron Woods. This is where the tree grows. However, this forest remains untouched by humans, so the convenience of bird statues will be lost to you. I can place a mark on your map, so to show you where the tree is located. You'll be able to descend straight to where the tree is from the sky, but.. You'll have to find your way out of the woods on your own. Hopefully, the tree can offer help to you in that regard, for you must hurry, as the cursed blade cannot be left alone for too long."

"And what about Ghirahim, himself?," Link asked.

The dragon drew a clawed hand from her sleeve momentarily, just to bat it in an unworried manner, "Simply leave the blessed blade in his chest, and he won't be able to heal himself. He will be harmless at that point."

The blonde teen nodded gravely, his voice quiet as he spoke in acceptance of the answer, "..Very well."

"Once you've returned," the dragon continued, "..have the sheath and chest made, and make sure they are blessed by the goddess's incarnation, just as an extra precaution. Find somebody who can cut the sword so that the blade is straight, and the sharp edges are dulled. You must be just as cautious in doing this, as well. The frightening power of the blade is much more than most mortals can endure, and you absolutely mustn't leave it in anybody else's hands for too long."

Only now did Link finally let the tiniest amount of confusion to pass through his mind concerning this process. He spoke the source of his dilemma with a soft shrug, and a questioning look in his eyes as he regarded the wise dragon, "If the blade is so toxic to mortals.. Then how can I even be trusted with it?"

A high-pitched laugh erupted from the powerful throat of the dragon, and it echoed in the enclosed chamber. She was truly amused by the silly, young hero, but he didn't shrink away in offense. He thought, perhaps, his question had been stupid. That was tossed from his thoughts easily enough; in this case, the only stupid question was the one he didn't ask.

As the water dragon smiled down at the young male in amusement, he almost blushed in embarrassment, but she spoke up quickly enough to reassure him "That answer is simple, Hero... You are pure of heart, of course. There is nothing the blade can latch onto within you, therefore, you will be able to endure it."

Link had shifted his gaze to a downcast position to hide his flushed cheeks. He nodded to the dragon, but maintained this posture- He didn't want her to notice that a glimmer of doubt had come upon his face at her answer. He was thinking, 'I might have been pure of heart when this all began.. But surely I am not anymore.'

Link chose to keep this to himself. He wasn't apt to discuss it, but he was growing more certain each day.. He wasn't pure. He was flawed. Something was wrong with him and he knew it.

"What is next?," Link asked.

"After you've accomplished all of this, and the blade is sealed so that its aura is useless, you must take it to a place of great heat, where the steel that forms the blade can be fully dissolved. This will purify the sword through complete deconstruction, breaking its evil aura, and disallowing it from ever sipping mortal blood again. Eldin Volcano is probably ideal, and you're surely familiar with that territory. All you must do is cast the blade and the chest containing the fragments into the magma."

For a moment, Link lost the steadiness of his concentration. His brows knitted together in a worrisome manner, and he softly bit his lip; he was considering the horror of meeting one's own death in the fiery clutch of magma. (He had come close a few times.) Would it be worse for a sword spirit? Would the feeling of his blade melting be a long, excruciating process, rather than just a flash of pain? It seemed.. Terribly gruesome.

"Link.. Are you listening?," the dragon hissed, as she noted the teen's distant expression.

"Yes," Link nodded quickly, "of course!" The troublesome thoughts jumped from his mind as his frame jolted in shock- Being caught not listening before the water dragon could potentially bring him upon a gruesome fate, or at least that was what the elder Kikwi had implied.

Link slowly raised his gaze to meet that of the dragon; she was giving the young hero a disbelieving and prudent stare, yet it easily softened. She couldn't help but worry herself over the young, tender human. Hylia was always so mysterious in the way she worked, and sending such children to do her work was one of those mysteries.

In a kind tone, the dragon offered Link further reassurances and initiative, "Don't let it trouble you, Hero. You must only be troubled in thinking of what Ghirahim will do if he is allowed to live. Wherever he goes, he creates ceaseless bloodshed. Remember that, and be diligent.

Maintaining a sense of steadiness, Link nodded to the dragon.

"Very good," she gently intoned, "..but there is one other thing I want you to be cautious of."

"Yes?," Link asked.

"Dark forces might have waned in strength, but savage creatures are still afoot. They will never fully disappear, no matter how we try to get rid of them. And, be warned, even with Ghirahim's blade sealed within the sheath, I wouldn't dare deny that it will still hold some pull over violent beings and even other mortal creatures. It is likely that the blade will attract every evil creature for miles. You'll still need a sword for your own defense, and, more importantly, under no circumstance should you use Ghirahim's sword! A bokoblin would probably impale himself upon that sword willingly, in order to give it the blood it needs to revive the spirit within; those horrid creatures answered to Ghirahim, after all. If the sword is used, you will risk everything; the blade may heal, and no longer fit the sheath. The spirit might awaken, and if he has enough strength, he will reclaim the blade, and escape. Ghirahim may be powerful, and his pride may be astounding, but he won't hesitate to retreat if it means avoiding his own death."

Once again, Link nodded surely. Yet, still, the dragon further cautioned, gently, but firmly speaking, "Be wary all the while."

"Understood," the Hero uttered, his soft voice steeled in his determination.

:: ::

::

Night was growing near; the sky had turned an orange-pink, which faded to violet at the lowest points between the darkened trees. Faron Woods was beginning to buzz with the sound of crickets, frogs and owls, who were all impatiently serenading the coming night, even during the last hours of twilight. These conjoined cadences were all overpowered by the rhythmic sound of Link's boots as he made his way back to the Sealed Grounds.

The young hero had a feeling of restlessness crawling in his veins, despite how tired he was. He could ignore fatigue, hunger and dehydration to a degree, but he could not ignore the tense sensation that was clawing at the back of his mind. (Actually, it wasn't really clawing. It was playfully scratching, teasing, tickling, and cooing into his ear. It wasn't painful, but it was completely impossible to ignore.)

The detailed instructions and vast warnings of the water dragon didn't soothe the feeling of urgency-oh no. Her words had served to heighten the sensation. Link was running over her words in his mind, letting it all flow through the front of his brain until he could remember it almost without having to think. One of the most important things she mentioned was getting every step covered with as much haste as possible. The young hero wouldn't be able to start tonight, but..

He knew he needed to get back. He needed to get back, because Ghirahim was healing at each moment, each second that Link didn't hurry.. And he didn't trust that creature. Link allowed himself to lean on his lack of trust to put his guilt to the back of his mind, hoping to forget it.

The darkened image of the temple on the Sealed Grounds came into visual, at last; It was a haunting gray, clutched at by blackened tendrils, or at least in the absence of the sun. What was left of the stone that still appeared white now glowed luminous orange, like fire, though its doors were shadowed, and its hollow insides seemed endlessly black.

But even in the shadow of the enormous ruin of a temple, Zelda's silhouette was impossible to miss. Her golden hair twinkled, even without sun shining upon her, and her flawlessly pale skin glowed like moonlight. She was the one Link laid eyes on as he came close enough to notice her standing outside.

Link's pace did not falter. If anything, he rushed further at seeing her. He did this because he was already near enough to realize that she was tense. He could see that her small hands had balled into worried fists, and that the soft, delicate skin between her brows was wrinkled nervously. Her narrow shoulders even appeared to tremble, if he had to guess from the minor details he perceived at a distance. He hurried, pushing himself faster, racing to his dearest friend, to her aid, as he always did, as he always would.

When the young hero at last was within earshot of his friend, he heard her whisper the words he had hoped and prayed she would not be saying to him. He watched her pink lips form the syllables, the subtle enunciation a haunting ring as her voice crawled from beyond the tightness of her throat.

"He woke up."

:: ::

/..to be continued../

::

[_And now, another episode of 'Trolling Link', brought to you by the fabulous Lord Ghirahim_.]

::

The young hero had brushed the sting of tears from his eyes; they weren't tears of insult, it was just his eyes reacting to the sharp pain in the side of his face. How dare this guy slap him, and then call him names? What did he even mean in saying he would make Link his bitch? Was that some kind of bad guy lingo for something terrible that he was unaware of? He didn't know, and he didn't care! He wasn't a bitch! He certainly wasn't anybody's property either!

He just wanted his friend back! He wanted to take Zelda home! She must have been so frightened, and he was wasting time with this weird guy. With a sharp, determined battle cry, the young Skyloftian rushed at the taller, strangely-colored creature. Link had been fairing well against every other vicious forest creature by just swinging his new sword at them, so he swung his mighty blade with all of his determined fury!

Suddenly, the blade came to a halt. Link attempted to yank it back, a tremor of panic racing through him as he realized that the strange man had captured the blade between his fingers. How was it even possible? Link growled beneath his breath as he fought to reclaim the blade, but no matter what he did, he simply couldn't pry it from the pale, silvery creature's grasp.

And then, without any warning, the taller man turned his hand, and spun the sword completely out of Link's hand, capturing it in his own elegant appendage as if he owned it.

Link dared not move as the vile serpent eyed his weapon, scrutinizing it as if he were some expert on swords. What did he know about swords, anyway?

"This is a nice sword," the taller male stated smoothly as he admired the blade in his hand.

Now he was complimenting him? Link was so confused. "Um..," he hesitated, "Thank y-"

"You're a complete novice with it, however. I'm going to have to relieve you of it. Letting you keep it would be cruel.. For this sword, I mean," the man finally elaborated, shooting a scornful glare at the blonde boy before him.

With a final 'hmph,' the strange man vanished in a flurry of diamond-shaped glimmers of golden light, taking Link's legendary sword with him, and leaving the hero utterly defenseless.

With no way of going on to save Zelda, Link fell to his knees, bitterly mumbling to himself in confusion. "What do I do now?"

;

-ERROR- (or alternatively, -MY NAME IS ERROR-)

[_Game Over; Without the master sword, your adventure cannot continue. Please begin a new game to try again.]_

::

_[Yes, it's true. Ghirahim can steal your sword. Luckily, he's nice enough to actually give it back.]_

::


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N-** Hello readers; This note is my apology for the lateness of this update. Though this chapter is nearly double the length of the usual update, and I damn near pulled my hair out to make sure I finished it on time, I also found myself without internet for almost a week on the day I was supposed to post it. Yes, yes, I'm most certainly furious, outraged, and sick with anger. I'm sorry if this has effected the quality of my writing.

Everybody join me and put on your rage faces. Otherwise, enjoy.

* * *

><p><em>::<em>

_[Hello readers; An unfortunate circumstance has occurred that will herein hinder progress with this work of fiction. I apologize for the inconvenience and the disappointment this will be to all of you if the fiction can no longer continue to be updated. However, due to the fact that 'The Fabulous Lord Ghirahim' received no important speaking lines in the last chapter, he is refusing to appear in any chapter beyond this one._

_He is, however, willing to reconsider, if one of two conditions can be met. The first condition he mentioned was a rather hefty payment in diamonds. This, of course, cannot be met, because this production is funded solely with coffee and sleepless nights. (We attempted to negociate a payment exchange between 'The Fabulous Lord Ghirahim' and his co-star, but Link was uncomfortable with the idea of paying with his body.)_

_The other condition is our only real hope for any continuation beyond this chapter; 'The Fabulous Lord Ghirahim' has requested that the writing staff give him his own personal scene to be shared solely with his 'numerous, adoring fans'. _

_The writing staff has taken time out of its busy schedule to produce a separate scene for 'The Fabulous Lord Ghirahim' (And yes, referring to him as this title is a requirement of our contract with him for this production.) in which he will directly interact with the fans by answering questions. _

_This is absolutely vital for the fiction to go on, so it is our sincere hope that you all, the readers and fans, will find time in your own busy schedules to submit questions. You may ask anything you desire, however, 'The Fabulous Lord Ghirahim' does not promise to answer all inquiries, depending on how many we receive. (And his mood that day.) Also, while worship of 'The Fabulous Lord Ghirahim' is not a requirement, it is encouraged, so feel perfectly free to do so. _

_Thank you and enjoy this chapter! It is our great hope that it will not be the last, and that we will continue to entertain audiences everywhere! _

_Sincerely,_

_Writing Staff and Production]_

:: ::

/.."He woke up."

Those were the words Minkin had been hoping to hear. He had waited sleeplessly for his brother to return, thinking perhaps his younger sibling had simply decided to be thoughtless, and had stayed overnight with his dear friend, Cynnel, without telling anybody.

He found out later, to his horror, that he had been incorrect in this hopeful assumption. He found this out, fate not sparing any remorse for his feelings, when he ventured to the home of Cynnel the next day, only to find Cynnel's family, as well as his own brother, brutally gored. Minkin's heart was shattered like delicate glass, but he was not allowed to begin his mourning. Despite his wounds, Minkin's brother was still breathing; Minkin prayed to any goddesses that would listen to him, please, send a fairy, send anybody, as long as they could save his brother.

For a time, Minkin thought Hylia had been watching out for him. His brother was in critical condition, but just barely hanging onto the last thread of life. Minkin begged each day for Hylia to come from her kingdom and offer assistance. She did, occasionally, grace mortals with her presence, so Minkin pleaded with all his might.

Minkin begged and pleaded quietly at his dying brother's bedside, hoping that his brother would awaken and begin to recover from the horrible fate that had befallen him. Minkin kept his eyes turned to the sky as he set out for soldier duties, expecting to see a messenger bird flitting overhead, carrying word that his brother had finally woken up; Finally, that day did come.

"He woke up," that was all the message said.

The unfortunate circumstances that accompanied this seemingly delightful news had not been mentioned. When Minkin arrived home, he was first informed that he was to receive the sword that had been left in Cynnel's home. It was the sword that was thought to have injured his only brother, and he was granted possession of the blade, if only to do as he wished with it. He could have tossed it into a river, should that have been his desire.

Minkin's brother had woken up at the time the sword arrived. He woke up only long enough to utter an ominous warning to the nursemaid watching over him in his brother's absence, "the sword is evil."

With this final declaration, Minkin's brother exhaled his final breath, and finally let his hold on life slip away.../

:: ::

"He woke up."

The young hero felt he could almost choke on his own breath as he tried to gulp it inward, into his paralyzed chest. His imagination suddenly ran amok, knowing what Ghirahim was capable of, and what lengths he might go to for the sake of rebuke.

The only thing that kept Link from panic was that Zelda now stood before him, worried but unharmed. His gloved hands reached out to her, being laid upon her shoulders protectively, and he forced himself to speak while inwardly praying that the young girl would tell him nothing dreadful as he questioned her. "Are you alright?"

Quietly, Zelda nodded.

"And Groose?," the hero asked.

The girl's light eyes connected with Link's gaze as he stood before her. The connection between them was trusting and warm, both finding comfort in simply seeing the other looking back at them. Still, Zelda's expression spoke nothing with certainty, and she began to shake her head, reaffirming what her eyes had already been telling her close friend. Her pink lips opened slightly, wanting to speak, yet she said nothing immediately, and eventually her gaze faltered as well, her eyes drifting downward.

"Zelda?," Link pressed.

"When he woke up..," Zelda's quiet voice spoke up, a certain tremble to her tone as she hesitated, "...He looked directly at me. His eyes immediately focused on me, and.. they were so cold and dark.. They were filled with hatred... He looked at me as if he were imagining how it would feel to have his hands around my neck... He said nothing, yet his eyes spoke enough... It was terrifying.."

"Hey," the male teen whispered as he shifted, lowering his head to meet his friend's gaze once more. "It's okay.. He can't hurt you. I won't let him. I promise.." Link knew how difficult this must have been for Zelda. She was facing somebody that had forcibly taken her with the intent of causing her harm, and hardly any time had passed since that day. She probably hadn't even fully come to terms with everything that had happened yet.

Reassured, if only a bit, Zelda looked her dear friend in the face. She forced a small smile, trusting him, knowing that she could believe in his promises of protection; at the same time, she still wished that she didn't have to rely on Link for protection. Why couldn't she, if she was indeed the incarnation of Hylia, be the one to protect him now? Didn't he deserve that much?

"Groose told me to leave," she uttered softly, only now answering Link's previous question, "He saw the way Ghirahim was glaring at me, and told me to go. It's been quiet inside since I went out, but.. I don't know what's happening. Ghirahim seemed weak, as you said, so.. I don't think he was able to move."

As Zelda finished explaining, Link gently nodded to her. He began toward the darkened doorway into the temple, bidding his friend to stay put, knowing how this situation was distressing her, yet Zelda quickly slipped her delicate hand into Link's own, choosing to follow him despite his warnings. She was comforted in knowing that she was with him. He had promised that she wouldn't be harmed. He had promised to protect her.

He had promised, and.. she knew Link would keep his promises. She knew that much.

The heavy door shifted with the sound of grit grinding between stone, and the whining complaint of the hinges. The sound echoed out into the immense open space of the temple, reverberating endlessly, or so it seemed for a moment. It wasn't deafening, but the sound consumed all else, until every mortal present was consumed in an endless vortex of noise, leaving mysterious questions unanswered with the aid of the darkness inside, which kept the young hero's eyes from working momentarily.

Soon, all was silent again. Link blinked the obscure feeling of shadow from his eyes, letting himself perceive what little light could be gathered from a single burning lantern. This one flickering flame was dancing over a broad set of shoulders, as well as a back, and a head that was turned opposite the door, seeming to be hung to the slightest degree.

Link tightened his hand around Zelda's, clutching her fingers between his own in a grip that was comfortably firm. It was his way of saying, 'I'm here,' as he pulled her nearer to himself, until they practically bumped shoulders, and he could hear her softly breathing. Her trembling breath broke the silence that was ringing in the Hero's ears, and broke enough of the tension for him to chorus it with the click of his boots upon the stone floor and the mossy cracks between the bricks.

Link walked forward, toward where he could see Groose sitting. Groose was still, and said nothing, despite the door's resounding announcement that Link had returned. Sometimes it seemed as if the red-haired male was moving, but it was only the illusionary effect of the flickering flame of the lantern as it moved across him ceaselessly.

As he came nearer, Link was able to catch sight of Ghirahim, still laying exactly as he had been when Link left him. Link was able to see exactly what Zelda had described to him. The dark sword spirit's eyes were indeed open; they were steely, black slits focused on one singular point, glaring daggers as his lips wore a grimace that was stained newly with his blood.

The spirit's pale lips were not the only part of him stained with new blood. While his chest had been injured before, the wound had previously been that of one clean stab, which had bled profusely, and left the surrounding skin a horrid purplish hue. Now the area of Ghirahim's chest was littered with other smaller wounds, some a bit off in their aim, none in quite the same spot, and it all was spattered with thick crimson, and appeared misshapen or sunken-in, as surely the spirit's sternum had been broken into small jigsaw-fragments from all the abuse. (That was, if the spirit's physical form was structured the same, internally, as a human being's.)

The blonde boy bit his lip at the sight, opting to turn his blue gaze toward Groose's own as he came to stand at the other male's side. Link could feel Zelda shuddering beside him, and coughing into a delicate palm at what she could make of Ghirahim in the lamp-light. Hopefully she had closed her eyes, or looked away as well.

"Groose? What happened?," Link asked in a strained whisper, a little disbelief in his voice as his eyes flickered between Groose's focused glare, and the hand that held the dagger tightly. His finger's clutched the blade to the point that his knuckles would surely be white. They would be white, if they weren't splattered in crimson.

Groose did not shift his stare; His eyes were bitterly locked with Ghirahim's own, and both refused to look away, as if they were in some staring contest, competing to see who could fit the most hatred behind their eyes. He did speak, however. "He moved."

Immediately, the young hero reached to take the dagger from Groose's hand. It was received without fuss, though it smeared Link's uncovered finger's with blood.

Still without shifting his glare, Groose spoke up again, his voice more hardened than the tone he usually spoke in, though it also held some quiver of an undecipherable emotion. (Nervousness? Fear? Regret? Anger? Or was it that he just felt ill?)

"Did you find out anything, Link?," he asked.

In his own serious tone, Link answered his friend's question. (Link's voice was steady. He had _somewhat_ become accustomed to these things, whereas the most blood other Skyloftian people had typically seen in their life was from scraped knees and tiny, accidental cuts.) "I found out how to destroy him."

Link hadn't meant to look away from Groose- He didn't want to look at Ghirahim. He couldn't help his own fidgeting reflexes, forcing him to flinch at the first sign of danger. As he finished speaking, he caught sight of a subtle shift in his peripheral vision, and instinctively turned to face it. He came to note that now Ghirahim had broken the grinding stare that had been aimed at Groose, and his eyes were focused, instead, in Link's direction.

Link hated it, and he hadn't meant it, but he couldn't help it- He was caught looking down at the horrifically gored spirit. Link accidentally met the spirit's hazy, grayish-black stare. His blue optics looked into the spirit's own, but Link only maintained it for a second; he looked away as quickly as possible. He didn't want to give himself time to see what emotion was hidden in those dark eyes. He didn't want to know how anybody sentenced to death looked up at their executioner.

The young hero bit his lip, wishing he had spared a bit more thought to the fact that Ghirahim was listening. What must it have felt like to lay helplessly while others discuss your death?

Shaking the wandering thoughts from his mind, Link released Zelda's hand, sure enough now that things were safe. That hand came to delve into one of the leather pouches upon Link's belt, and he drew out one of the small bottles he had been carrying; it was long drained of potions, and the teen had used it to contain water. It might have been plentiful in Faron Woods, but he felt it was still best to prepare for the unexpected turn of events. This was one of those, or so he supposed.

The crystal-clear water, which Link hadn't felt any need to drink, now became useful as he uncorked the bottle and poured the liquid, in a trickle, over the dagger in his other hand to rinse it of blood. The bottle, once empty, was stashed back inside the pouch from which it was produced, and the dagger was rubbed along the material of Link's pants, once on each side, to dry it.

"Here," Link spoke in a regretful tone, still apprehensive about the discussion of Ghirahim's destruction, though it seemed unavoidable. He hated it, just as much, having to involve Zelda. Again, there was no other option. Link held the dagger by the blade, turning the handle toward Zelda as he outstretched his arm in her direction, urging her to take the weapon. "I was told by the water dragon that I should have a blade blessed by you, to temporarily imbue the blade with holy light. This light will sap away Ghirahim's dark energies and he'll be unable to heal himself."

In a dainty, unsure motion, the young girl took the blade from her friend's hand. She held it tightly in her small hands, as if to squeeze the life from it,(if it had any, that is.) and she raised a glassy stare up to look upon Link in questioning. The flicker of the lantern could be seen in the reflective depths of her light eyes, and they seemed to glow through the dark as she looked toward Link. "Is this all that must be done in order to-...?"

"No," Link answered, not needing for Zelda to bother finishing her sentence. Zelda looked into her friend's face with an unwavering expression, while Groose turned his head to look back at Link, clearly listening as well.

"This is to render him harmless. After, his sword can be drawn from his chest to anybody's hand. Once we possess the blade, I'm to venture to a forest I've never explored, where I'm meant to receive wood from a holy tree. That wood will be used to create a sheath for Ghirahim's blade, which will seal the evil aura it possesses. Then, finally, I will take the sword to Eldin Volcano, and cast it into the magma."

The young hero's words did not come easily. He wanted to speak them as much as he wanted to follow the steps he was detailing. Amidst the explanation, his visage drifted downward, and his eyes focused upon the ground near Zelda's feet. Even just looking at his friend's shoes, he could still tell how she had tensed at what he was telling her.

Zelda was not only enduring a horrid amount of guilt for making Link speak about a most brutal process, (as well as for their prisoner, who was silently listening and watching them as they stood near him.) but her heart was heavy with remorse. She watched her adored friend, her sweet, gentle Link, and she cursed Hylia; she cursed herself. How cruel it was to force such a kind soul to endure all this unnecessary violence. How cruel she was! Why did she ever plan things this way, and how did she ever think she would be able to steel her heart against such terrible things?

(Zelda wanted to hate Ghirahim. She wanted to hate him, because it was his fault that Link had to go through this. Somehow, though.. she couldn't stand to place blame on anybody... so she blamed herself, instead.)

"This all sounds.. So very gruesome," Zelda uttered, trying to hold strength in her voice, and to be unwavering. She wasn't sure if anybody bought her act, but she pressed on, regardless. "Killing evil creatures.. Killing people.. It must feel as if there is no difference, in the end.. Because, after all, blood is blood. Once it's on your hands, nobody can tell where it came from any longer.. Link.. I don't know how you can endure this. I don't know how you can bear all the responsibility that's been levied upon you.. I truly don't.. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

A few more quiet apologies were uttered, whispered, falling inaudible as Zelda held the dagger flat against her chest, near her beating heart, and she let her head lower and her eyes hid in the comforting darkness beneath her pale lids and doll lashes. All this pain and suffering.. It hurt so much.. 'Was this Hylia's compassionate remorse?,' she was thinking, 'is that why it feels like my heart is breaking?' Through it all, she focused on the warmth of the light she found inside herself, speaking words of prayer beneath her breath, mystic words that came from deep inside, that she would not recall, nor could anybody hear as she whispered to herself.

For a few seconds, a glimmer of light shone off the silver of the blade, lightening the steel until it was very near a tone of golden-white. It slowly purified in Zelda's frail hands, and when she opened her eyes again, the weapon was imbued with the holy light she held within herself, as the goddess Hylia.

(And though she said nothing of it, as Zelda placed the dagger back into her chosen Hero's hands, she withdrew the light she knew was inside her, and she buried it away some place dark, wanting it to vanish. She wanted it to disappear, and she wanted the pain to end. She didn't want to feel it any longer. She wanted to be Zelda and nobody else.)

"Thank you," Link quietly spoke as the blessed dagger was handed back to him. He chose to, for now, tuck it back into the sheath inside his boot, just within reach of nimble fingers. He would wait until Zelda and Groose had returned to Skyloft to use it.

"The two of you had best hurry, if you want to get back before nightfall," the blonde teen intoned, his voice drained of emotion, "there's probably just enough sun left above the clouds for you two to fly back."

Zelda easily nodded her head to Link. It was clear that Link would have to stay here for the night, to look after Ghirahim, but it only really occurred to the young girl as her friend spoke of she and Groose returning, yet not himself. Zelda replied in her own most serious, but gentle tone, "We're returning tomorrow. I'll bring supplies for you, if you'd like?," as she spoke, she met eyes with Link, and he easily nodded to her.

"Are you sure you'll be alright by yourself?," Groose finally spoke up to address Link, breaking his own silence. He motioned toward Ghirahim as he did so, pointing with a thumb over his shoulder. "I can stay, if you'd like to have somebody to rotate watch with?"

The blonde male smiled kindly to Groose's generous offer, but he shook his head softly. "That's alright. It won't be necessary. He probably won't be waking up again."

"Ah," Groose nodded, understanding, "That's right."

"But," Link spoke, "He'll still need to be looked after tomorrow, while I'm off gathering the wood for the sheath."

"I'll be here," Groose assured. "I'm happy to watch after this creep as long as you need, so long as he'll be gone for good afterward."

"..Right. I'll see you tomorrow then," came Link's quiet voice, after a momentary hesitation.

Yet, while Groose stood and began to saunter toward the door, Zelda let her eyes warily drift to the pitiful creature in her midst, who laid watching in silence, venomously glaring and detesting them all, all while he fought to breathe around the multiple wounds in his chest.

Again, that horrible pain returned, aching in the young girl's chest, and she simply could not ignore it any further.

"Could I... Could I have a moment alone..? With him, I mean," she motioned toward the helpless sword spirit, careful not to look into the face of either Groose nor Link as she brought this up. They, of course, both seemed uncomfortable at the suggestion, but she refused their warnings, assuring them that she could handle it.

Link hadn't a clue why Zelda wished to be alone with Ghirahim, but.. he was the first to accept that this was her wish, and that she could not be swayed. Still, he maintained his promise to protect her, advising his close friend that he would wait right outside, and.. should she need him, all she had to do was call for him.

With quiet gratitude in her delicate voice, Zelda thanked Link, as well as Groose, who followed Link's example; then, once the two had stepped beyond the temple, Zelda found herself turning her eyes toward the sword spirit Ghirahim once again.

There was only a short distance between them, but the young girl tentatively closed that small gap. A stool had been moved near to where Ghirahim laid; this is where Groose had been sitting all the while. Yet, while Zelda first thought to sit upon the short, wooden chair, she decided, instead, to fully kneel at the wounded spirit's side, letting her tender knees press into the stone, with only the fabric of her dress to protect her pale skin.

Just as before, Ghirahim sought eye contact with her, as if he held a special amount of loathing in his heart for her, alone. The girl found herself swallowing nervously, sure that Ghirahim would relish an opportunity to kill her, and wouldn't spare a second thought about it. But Zelda would not let the tremor of fear that she felt deter her from her goal, and she warily returned the eye contact, her own gaze soft and benevolent.

She didn't know why Ghirahim hated her so much. She had assumed, at first, that he despised them all, simply because they had all pushed back against his plans as he attempted to move forward in them. They had all hoped to outmatch him, and they had all offered their own strength in intervening. Zelda had thought, perhaps, he hated them all equally for this.

Then, Zelda thought maybe Ghirahim hated Link the most, then her, then Groose; after all, Link was the one who tipped the scale in their favor. But, now, she was sure that this was incorrect. She'd had enough time to look, and to notice that nobody received such a bitter level of hatred via glare as she did. But why?

As far as Zelda could recall.. Ghirahim had been the one to hurt her, and aside from escaping his grasp a few times, she hadn't done anything to warrant anything more than his typical malice and annoyance. So why? Why?

Gingerly, Zelda reached out to the loathsome creature within arm's length, and she smoothed his disheveled, white hair away from his face, using only one careful finger to do so. She wanted to be able to look him fully in the face as she addressed him, but she made no move without caution. It was perfectly obvious that the spirit preferred not to be touched, his brow wrinkling in his own silent response as her fingertip barely brushed the cold surface of his silvery cheek.

As she withdrew her hand, Zelda placed it upon her knees. Her eyes still watched Ghirahim, mixed between nervousness, and pity as her line of sight strayed down to his mutilated chest, then quickly back to his face. He only placed that much more hatred behind the endless dark inkwells of his eyes as she scrutinized him.

It was that very look that gave her the final push she needed to actually address him. Her voice came out timid, but sure in her words. "I don't what I've done to warrant so much hatred, but.. For all you've done to us, I can still forgive you... I would hope for the same, in return."

As Zelda's last syllable hung heavily in the air, only to be devoured by silence, she was almost ready to believe that the begrudging spirit would simply withhold any response, out of sheer spite. She waited with infallible patience, until she noticed the injured creature narrow his eyes slightly, and finally open his bloodied lips to speak.

The sound that came out of his mouth, however, was not words, or at least not anything distinguishable. There was a soft hiss of pain, pain which was his punishment for even attempting to do anything aside from taking shallow breaths. Even so, Ghirahim managed to push air up from punctured lungs which had been intended to aid in vocalization, though his voice was lost in the gurgle of blood that had invaded each of his pierced cavities.

He attempted words but failed miserably; he gave up at the point that his struggle turned into a ragged cough, hoping to keep himself from smearing his pride any further by making his face a filthy mess of spewed plasma.

Only as she watched the sword spirit try to choke out words did Zelda realize that all this time, Ghirahim had not been silent out of choice, but because he was injured beyond the capability of speech. The confused flurry of emotion she was suddenly forced to try and sift through left her feeling awkward over the entire situation, and wishing she hadn't tried to force him to talk. How foolish she was. Of course he couldn't manage! How cruel and stupid, thinking he could idly converse while he was miserably tattered and surely in pain. She couldn't care that he was evil, or that he would kill her without hesitance; she wouldn't shrug and tell herself that he deserved this for his misdeeds, he.. He was still a person, a living thing..

He looked like a person, and he certainly felt the same physical agony anybody else would feel. He was a sentient creature.. She couldn't excuse herself for this. She couldn't.

The girl balled her tiny hands into fists, trying to fight back the tears she could feel welling up, like a glassy sheen that blurred her vision. This emotional break wasn't fully a response of guilt. It was just as much her mind's way of silently attempting to resolve the troubling vision of another living thing, injured to the point that death would become imminent, were Ghirahim mortal.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, uncertain as to why she even bothered apologizing; she spoke these words as she brought a delicate wrist up to quickly rub the wetness from her eyes, and restore her vision. Then, on a whim, she extended her trembling hands to hover near the spirit's wounded chest, and she reached deep inside, deep into that secret place where she had hidden Hylia's strength, her own holy strength, and she forced herself to heal at least some of Ghirahim's wounds.

Her compassion outweighed logic. She knew she shouldn't be doing this.. At the same time, she couldn't resist. She was not the same as him. She would not be merciless or cold.

Slowly, the wounds began to mend, and some of the displaced blood was returned to its correct area of circulation. Carefully, Zelda avoided the central strike through her fallen enemy's chest, the blow that Link had dealt originally. She assumed that if she allowed that one injury to remain, he would still be too weak to move or fight.

"This..," Zelda whispered, keeping her voice down so that the boys wouldn't hear her, "..should make you a bit more comfortable." As she finished, and withdrew her hand, she spoke up in question. "Is this enough for you to regain your ability to speak? ..if so, you can say what it was you had intended to before.."

The young incarnation of Hylia hadn't expected much of a change in the spirit's demeanor, and she certainly didn't expect him to soften over one tiny show of kindness. But what Zelda expected the least was for Ghirahim to actually seem firmer in his glare than before, as if he wished she would have just let him suffer. (Perhaps he did wish that?)

But, as the vengeful sword spirit indeed hardened his spiteful stare, Zelda decidedly shifted herself back, away from him slightly, finally remembering the fear that she had tried so hard to push out of her mind.

Taking one, single, deep breath, and exhaling it in order to test how well his chest had been repaired, Ghirahim resigned himself to granting the foolish girl at his side an answer. The tip of his tongue came out to lick his lips, lapping away blood that had stained them, and leaving his face a bit more clean than it had been. Only after this did he feel prepared enough to address Hylia's weak, new form, and he maintained his hateful glare all the while as he allowed his voice to be heard.

"You may be assured," he began, "..that no matter how remorseful and contrite you appear to me now, you cannot atone for what you've done to me. You have yourself, alone, to fault, regardless of how you cling to blissful ignorance. I am guiltless for my actions.. and your longing for forgiveness is certainly anything but mutual."

Again, Zelda was left shaking her head in an attempt to rid herself of the unnecessary overflow of feeling that came to her in response; it was truly problematic, where on one end of the spectrum, she had her own feelings and responses, and on the other, she had those of Hylia's consciousness that resided within her, not yet fully unsheathed. Her thoughts became so troublesome, all resting on opposite ends of what felt like a dreadful scale, tipping one way and then the other.

There was anger, at first. This felt reminiscent to what she felt toward Groose when he picked on Link. Budding alongside this was a certain degree of offense and a feeling of being sorely unappreciated for her kind efforts. This all came to be masked with confusion; confusion bubbled up in Zelda's mind, because she was still yet to understand what wrongs Ghirahim spoke of, and she could also see that he wasn't likely to explain, nor forgive her either way.

Finally, all else previous was covered with an overwhelming sense of pity; (There was both her own pity at seeing a living being suffer, and the mysterious guilt she had been feeling all the while). She allowed it to consume the other misplaced emotions, simply because it calmed her, to a degree. It eased her tension just enough to allow her to look back down upon the injured spirit with a gentle acceptance apparent in her eyes.

Ghirahim was.. a lost cause. Redemption, in this lifetime, was clearly beyond his reach.

Zelda softly breathed a sigh; this was a sigh of defeat, but she expressed no soreness over such a loss. She was regretful, but no more upset than that. She offered a nod of her head to Ghirahim's words, accepting them, and holding no grudge regardless of Ghirahim's own fierce show of bitterness.

"I suppose it doesn't matter," Zelda spoke gently, "..you're still condemned, either way. I merely wished to communicate my regret at what has happened to you, without holding a grudge."

The soft, bitter sound of laughter was pushed from the injured chest of the spirit; actually, it may have been that he was trying to restrain it and found himself unable to do so. His hands slowly lifted to lay near the wound that was driven fully through him, his fingers clawing at his flesh in agony, yet he couldn't hold in the snicker of mockery.

Ghirahim simply couldn't help himself- It truly did amuse him that mortal Hylia thought herself some sort of benevolent deity, while she was fully ignorant of how heartless she truly was. He hoped, most sincerely, that she could come to realize the truth. He wished he could live to see her wallow in self-loathing; too bad he also doubted this would occur. This child was much too sickeningly righteous.

"Condemned..?," Ghirahim echoed, with spite in his voice. He finally turned his head, facing away from the foolish girl, and letting his eyes focus on the darkness that surrounded from the opposite direction. It was much more soothing. "That has been my fate since the day of my creation..."

The spirit's voice lowered to a hiss, the force in his tone heightening the pain that wriggled itself from his gaping chest, into every inch of him, yet he resisted the urge to writhe in recoil. "..I would hate to lose the comfort of familiarity.."

"I doubt your hatred is anymore comforting," Zelda lifted her voice to be heard as she raised herself to standing. The ring of kindness was ever-present in the young girl's tone, but she also allowed herself to speak with a sense of finality. "Regard us in whatever way soothes you.. But know that I will still offer my own forgiveness, no matter how worthless it may seem."

With no more to say, Zelda turned in the direction of the front exit of the temple and strode toward it in a quick but graceful gait. She spoke nothing more, choosing to hold her tongue. Yet, still, Ghirahim refused to let the young girl's words be the last between them, and even as she walked away, he cursed her with each breath.

"Dear, _'merciful_' mother of us all," he hissed, "..when the day comes that you are knocked from your pedestal, you'll discover that you are the cruel one.. See if you still hold hope for forgiveness from your enemies then, after you realize how little you deserve it.."

:: ::

Zelda had said very little to Link as she emerged from inside the temple; she spared him one of her soft smiles, but Link could see that she had an unsettled look in her eyes. He understood her moods very well, because they had been friends practically forever.

It was difficult to describe, but she walked away with a posture that made it seem like she was holding her shoulders forward in a tense position, and she walked quickly. The blonde boy could have just assumed that she was making haste, so to not be caught flying at night, but.. the way she was carrying herself screamed, 'I don't want to talk about it', so something was wrong, undoubtably.

The teenage hero let his friend be, without disrupting her any further. He wasn't the sort to pry, anyway. Actually, he paid so little mind to what he often perceived as personal musings, he had been accused of being 'oblivious' in the past.. He wasn't oblivious to _everything_, he just chose silence as the best alternative.

He did wonder, though, what Ghirahim had said to Zelda, if anything..

When Link was left alone, with nothing but the music of night falling over the surrounding woods, he ducked back inside the dark confines of the temple, shutting the door behind him with the heavy noise of stone-against-stone.

Admittedly, the temple was exceedingly spooky as it was bathed in shadow. It was so eerily silent that the single flame lighting a halo-esque area around where Ghirahim laid could be heard as it flickered and devoured the wick of the lantern. A soft wail of air passed over crevices in the rock, whistling every now and again with the wind, sounding like the ragged breath of some threateningly large creature. Then, from time to time, tiny bits of stone would chip away from the walls and topple to the floor with an immense echo, until the debris rolled itself to a halt.

Every little thing could be heard from within the large, ancient space. Human beings weren't used to such a keen ability to hear their surroundings, so it suddenly twisted their mind into believing that every noise was a perceivable threat.

The place smelled like Earth, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was decrepit on standards of human-built structure, but it felt no different from the open forest in the same regard. Knowing that there were many other, much more terrifying places, Link was decently at ease staying here alone at night.

But then he remembered.. he wasn't alone. Link had simply begun to delude himself into believing that he was on his own for several reasons. The first was in knowing who his company was and _preferring_ to be alone. The second was an unfair categorization of Ghirahim into a 'not-a-person' group, based on his personality (rather than him being a sword). The third was because Link was feeling the stab of regret in his own chest, just in knowing what he was meant to do to Ghirahim, now that everybody else was gone. The forth reason was because Link knew that the spirit would essentially be comatose after that business was handled, so.. he didn't count as company anyway.

There were probably more, but these were the most obvious of them all.

In what seemed like silent neutrality, or perhaps apathy, Link came to rest himself on the wooden stool that waited near where the sword spirit laid, not yet saying a word, nor expressing any emotion. He regarded Ghirahim with just enough attention to see that he was clearly awake, and that he appeared more alert than he had been, but the blonde teen examined him no further.

Instead, Link found his chin coming to rest in his hand as his back slumped and he positioned his elbow on his knee. This was comfortable enough for him to fall into a pensive state, staring at the flame from the lantern, until he was blind to all else that surrounded him. He did not intend to immediately face the duty of rendering the sword spirit powerless; he had questions. However.. he was uncertain as to how he wanted to address the situation.

A slight shift from Ghirahim was what jarred the young hero from his dismal reverie. Link would not admit that the subtle movement startled him, yet it was undeniable that his muscles jolted before he lowered his gaze back down to the helpless creature before him.

Link's hand had unconsciously sought the comforting sensation of a sword's handle, but his fingers slid away from the old practice blade on his back before he even realized he had raised his arm. As the moon-like complexion of the injured spirit came into focus, followed by the finer details of his prone form, the reason for his movement became apparent; it clearly was in an effort to adjust himself upon the surely uncomfortable area he had been left without much care.

A momentary consideration for Ghirahim's comfort passed through Link's mind; anybody would begin to ache after being left on the floor. Surely the bothersome conditions weren't comparable to his injuries, but.. did that mean it mattered less? Would Ghirahim think to offer _his_ _own_ prisoners somewhere nice to rest? Or did he even take prisoners to begin with? Being his prisoner would likely mean that something worst than death was to occur, so he probably couldn't care less about the feelings of others.. Then Link remembered his own sense of compassion; he wasn't supposed to set his own standards on Ghirahim's level simply because it was what the twisted spirit would do, because that made him.. the same. He didn't want to be the same.

A sigh of remorse was lightly released from the teen's lungs. He couldn't overlook the terrible treatment of his prisoner, but he was left glancing about, unsure what he could even do to help; it wasn't like he kept pillows and blankets handy.

A sense of urgency came over the overly-compassionate hero as Ghirahim shifted again; Link looked down at him, seeing that the spirit had his head turned in the opposite direction, and he was turned slightly onto his side, as if to remove the pressure of the stone floor against his back. This discontent shifting also served to remind Link of how still Ghirahim had been while Groose was here; Groose had mentioned that the spirit had moved while he was watching after him and he had also thought it threatening enough to warrant the use of the weapon he had been left with.

But it was unlikely that Ghirahim had been warned that even slight movement would earn him further injury. (Link had instructed for Groose to use good judgement, but.. Groose probably struck at the first sign of movement, perhaps strictly out of panic. Link wished he knew.) The spirit couldn't have known he would be attacked for something so simple; no, he had been left to find out that any slight fidget would provoke attack 'the hard way', without any word of warning.

It was unfair and brutal... The young hero wished he'd handled things with better forethought, or that he'd even had a chance to do so. (After all, everything had happened so quickly.) Now there wasn't much he could do to fix things.

Link really wanted a chance to talk to Ghirahim one last time before he struck what would be the silencing blow; he supposed this was a decent opportunity to tentatively attempt conversation, though he was also dreading it. (The Skyloftian boy hadn't come to find Ghirahim particularly enjoyable to interact with; it was right the opposite, in fact.)

"..if you'd like," Link started, his voice quiet and timid despite how hard he was trying to be composed and apathetic. (He didn't want to show any signs of weakness),"..I can move you outside. I know grass isn't much of an improvement, but.. it's really the only thing I can do, and I'm sure it is better than this floor."

As the blonde Skyloftian finished speaking, he waited, watching. Even from the side, and with only the weakest cast of light, Link felt he could see the creature contemplating his words. He didn't know if Ghirahim was deciding upon something to say, or if he should even speak- It was strange altogether that he even needed time to think. He typically had words on the tip of his tongue, words that were spilling over, endless strings of intricate dialogue, as if all of his speeches were day dreamt up by some fantastic playwright long before the time came for him to speak.

Then, slowly, those hazy charcoal eyes came to look in Link's direction. They gazed, distrusting, narrow slits, adorned by a frame of serpentine, violet markings. They flickered over Link, measuring his very worth to the sound of silence, analyzing him deeply, as if for the first time ever, until at last, Ghirahim decided to speak up.

"Foolishly sympathetic," he uttered, his voice lowered to a level that made it seem as though he had to force his words out from between his teeth, despising the bitter taste on his tongue. Yet, somehow, he managed to smirk sarcastically. "Funny how the most incompetent-looking of the lot has shown himself to be the most logically reasonable."

At first, Link thought the second remark was intended to be aimed at him; this was because he took offense before the spirit even finished speaking. He realized as Ghirahim finished that it could not be so; the spirit thought Link to be foolish, and the incompetent-looking person in question was actually more intelligent. Did he mean..?

Maintaining his neutrality through his curious tone, Link questioned, "Are you talking about Groose?" Also, he wondered, 'Did Ghirahim 'sort of' compliment Groose just now? And because Groose stabbed him? That was cause for a compliment? Twisted creature.'

"Whatever his name may be," Ghirahim took a deep, but somewhat ragged breath, trying to force air into his chest though it put pressure on his wounded core. "He's been the only one to regard me as the dangerous threat to mortal life that I am.. whereas Hylia and yourself clearly have a loose grasp on recollection and character judgement."

'So he was complimenting Groose,' Link was thinking, along with, 'I think he's offended that we're pitying him.' He made no mention of this, however, because another question sparked to life in the back of his mind, "...what happened when Zelda was here with you?"

"You're so unobservant, sky child," the spirit chuckled darkly despite himself, clutching at his chest protectively as he did so, as if it soothed the ache he felt, "If she had granted me another minute of her attention, I could have splayed her wide open, just to see if her blood holds any true divinity in comparison to the rest of the mortal population," a pause, and yet another deep breath; Ghirahim exhaled slowly, then licked his lips with desire, "..That would have been worth dying for, just for a second's taste."

With a shiver, the spirit's back momentarily arched up from the ground, all in imaginative ecstacy, "The blood of the goddess," he whispered in a sultry tone, "..I could ask for nothing greater, I'm sure."

"Stop it!," Link hissed, his eyes turning icy when at last he could take no more; he couldn't bear to listen to Ghirahim threaten Zelda, even if those threats were fruitless. It was troubling, because the teen no longer had any difficulty in imagining the most horrific things, all thanks to his own 'heroic' acts over the recent weeks.

The young male looked down, piercingly glaring at Ghirahim, similar to how he did each and every other time he was forced to listen to these types of threats. Link was not exceedingly temperamental, in fact, he was rather aloof, yet.. This particular creature never failed to inflame his protective fury. He knew exactly how to press the young male's buttons.

Link had listened to enough threats and Ghirahim was in no place to make any threats.

And again, reacting in his own typical fashion, Ghirahim's pale lips twitched into a smirk of satisfaction at the offense he had caused, getting some sort of buzz just in knowing he had enough power over Link that he could draw a reaction.

"Mmmm, that changed your tune quite well, didn't it?," The twisted creature purred as he peered up at the troubled hero. "Are we still feeling sympathetic, young hero? Or would you like to undo your merciful goddess's mistakes now?" Here, Ghirahim arched his back from the floor again, slightly, letting his hands slide slowly away from his chest, his gloved fingertips tracing along the silvery flesh that had been previously injured, until he came to grip at the hem of his once-white, now-stained-crimson clothes, and he tugged back at it, opening the hole further, as if to flaunt his own exposed weak point, hoping to feel the penetration of the blade which would undo him. (He may not have been in his advanced form, but his area of weakness was the same.)

The subtle flush of anger quickly vanquished itself fully from Link's countenance, replaced in a single instant with a tinge of embarrassment, awkwardness, yet were it not for the dim glow of the light, the hue of his skin might have been noticeably tainted with blood racing hotly beneath his flesh.

'Why does he act like this?' Link was puzzling again, never truly finding any pieces that fit together, when it came to Ghirahim's behavior. However, regardless of how he inwardly felt at seeing Ghirahim splaying open his own revealing garments that much further, Link's eyes dared not look away.

And Link came to notice something curious as he studied his enemy's sculpted torso- It was, visually, as it was normally, back to looking perfect, rather than fragmented and sunken from mutilation. The central wound remained, as did the darkened bruises that crawled outward from the injury, but all of the damage that had been done by Groose had disappeared, as if removed.

Once more, Link's emotional state teetered into something new and surprising; he lowered himself from the stool to the floor, next to Ghirahim, and he studied the spirit closely, as if he couldn't be completely sure of what his eyes were telling him with only the flicker of candlelight. His blue eyes skimmed over every exposed inch of his enemy's chest, yet nothing remained, save for the single wound.

Link was certain that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, but he only ceased in his checking and re-checking at the moment he felt he could almost hear the sword spirit's stretchy clothing ready to tear from the pressure being put against it as it was tugged at. The teen knew there was no way those stab-wounds healed so quickly if the original had yet to close over, and suddenly Ghirahim's mentioning of Zelda's 'actions' made sense.

She had healed Ghirahim's brutally destroyed chest. Actually.. Link somewhat caught himself smiling about it. His friend had sneakily tried to conceal her own overly kind heart, and was perhaps a bit thoughtless, but still.. Something about the scenario made the Hero feel a bit.. relieved. He wouldn't mention it to Zelda, but he was happily aware, in secret.

He didn't mention it to Ghirahim, either. He drifted back into a state of reserve, and addressed the spirit for other reasons. "You never told me whether you wanted me to move you or not.." (Seriously, Link already felt as if his knees would be unpleasantly bruised as he kneeled on the floor; Ghirahim couldn't have been enjoying this, for as long as he had been here. Maybe he felt things differently, though.. The Skyloftian had no idea.)

In a huff that was laced with disgust, Ghirahim sharply turned his head away at the posed offering. It appeared, at first, that he wholly intended to ignore Link, for whatever reason he had become offended; however, with another deeply aggravated sigh, he responded to the boy's question, though not truly with an answer.

"I see no point in that, Sky child..," came the spirit's voice in a rather evenly-spoken tone. It left Link blinking in curious wonder- He didn't think he'd ever heard Ghirahim speak and sound so..melancholy. But the young male's ears were not deceiving him, as the spirit continued to speak, his tone unchanged, "I'm aware of what you're going to do, after all. I honestly expected you to have finished it by now."

As if he could sense the sudden, debilitating twinge of regret that clawed at the tender, compassionate heart of the young male, Ghirahim turned a glance back over, just enough so that one dark eye was visible from beneath his disheveled, white hair, and he smiled softly, letting his voice reclaim its previous mockery. "Hesitation, hesitation," he whispered scornfully.

Quietly, Link furrowed his brow just enough that it was noticeable; he was confused. It was audible in his voice as he spoke, as was the guilt he still felt at discussing Ghirahim's death right in front of him, most insensitively. "You don't seem like... you're afraid."

A scoff; Ghirahim must have found something about his naive company amusing, because he was smiling, laughing to himself without laughing at all, quietly chuckling in his mind, because his eyes were smiling, too. It was one of his, 'You're so amusingly foolish', type of expressions. It was strangely warm, and just as odd in how 'human-like' it was. (Link thought, for just a second, that it was interesting how much more expressive Ghirahim was in comparison to Fi. He scratched those wandering thoughts out very quickly, also reminding himself of how Ghirahim tended to explode into unbridled bouts of overwhelming emotion, whereas Fi had been almost mechanical. It seemed as if they were one person who was split apart, and that both were imperfect because they lacked each other's traits. 'How ironic,' Link thought.)

When the sword spirit chose to speak again, Link stopped his pointless musing, and listened. It was captivating, in a way, because Ghirahim was still uttering his words in such a soft, calm tone. It was hard to grasp, practically unrealistic in comparison to every other time Link had been addressed.

"You mortals have such a pathetic grasp on the concept of death. What reason does one have to fear an end when it is only your mortal flesh that dies, while your soul remains forever immortal, and is granted redemption time and time again, in rebirth?"

Link did not immediately respond; when he did not, he noticed that Ghirahim paused, and then turned to look up at him, expectant. Again, the young Skyloftian was left flustered. He was honestly much too young to have considered death on a philosophical or spiritual level, nor had he been very aware of the Goddess's arrangement of things, since her words had become mythology over time, rather than something 'real'. The blonde male wanted to conclude that this entire topic should have been taboo coming from an 'evil' being, but he assumed that the truth behind Ghirahim's creation, as well as his age, were contributing factors in his knowledge, and so maybe it wasn't as strange as it seemed?

Maybe Link had misjudged his enemy.

So, now, Link took another moment to actually -think- about what Ghirahim was saying to him. The young hero knew that his own soul was destined to be reincarnated in time, to face the vengeful curse that was Demise's own inextinguishable hatred, but he hadn't applied this same thought to every person he knew. He hadn't considered that other people would ever live again.

And, as well, while he had been questioning Ghirahim's apparent lack of fear in regards to death, the sword spirit had spoken of 'mortal' creatures being reborn. He made no indication that immortal creatures, like himself, could rely on a similar comfort.

"...what about you?," Yes, Link was wondering this. He hadn't meant to say it, but it rolled out before he could stop himself.

The sword-spirit reacted as if this question were completely normal. He batted his hand dismissively, yet he answered with no sign of hesitation. "When one lives as long as I have, long enough to experience the deepest extent of what it means to -suffer-... the concept of suffering and of pain are warped until they are no longer considered synonymous with death... Instead, life itself is what becomes threatening and impossible to face any longer.. Do you understand, _Link_?"

The sound of his name spoken almost served to jar him from properly realizing what Ghirahim was getting at; his blue eyes had been drifting to stare into the distance in thought, but they snapped back to look at the pensive spirit at the sound of his name. He had figured it out, however.

"That's why you let me win," Link spoke quietly, his voice touched with misplaced sorrow, "You're _wanting_ me to kill you." (Something just...wasn't right about that.) Link suddenly didn't feel right about this either; he sincerely hoped that this was just some elaborate trick, and that Ghirahim was deceiving him, hoping to elude his own death, and that something would give him away to remind Link of his evils. (Oh, no, no, this couldn't be right..)

"Your naivety is so.. adorable," the last word was spoken with an intense coating of sarcasm. Link immediately groaned in response; he wouldn't say, but it honestly made him feel better, hearing Ghirahim insult him. Oddly, he preferred it. At least it was familiar.

"Were you so surprised when the spirit within your own sword sought rest after her purpose was completed?," Ghirahim posed this question, however, he elaborated without waiting for an answer, "Loyalty and a longing for servitude are just flaws in our design. We aren't like humans.. We don't live because we enjoy life. Instead, we seek purpose. We search for it as naturally as humans eat and sleep and breathe. When we no longer have any purpose, we're naturally bound by an instinct to believe that we are thereafter.. unnecessary," here, the spirit paused, a certain devious light flashing in the otherwise blackened depths of his eyes, and he smirked to himself, "Though I will admit that, since I'm mentally closer to a 'human' state-of-mind, my imperfections, my selfishness, my.. _desires_,... They adhered me to a more human-like existence for a much longer while. They made me more independent."

In this moment, listening to Ghirahim speak, the young hero honestly -forgot- who it was he was conversing with. He forgot the past, and let his mind linger on what was being said. It was because of this lapse that Link allowed himself to go verbally unchecked, and chatter without consideration for how reasonable he sounded. It was true, human beings lived in fear of death; they never discussed it, if possible, not even wanting to consider it real. Death, to Link, had become something evil; it was something he felt he had to fight to protect those he loved from, and that he was thrown into guilt for having caused so often, himself. This thinking all stemmed from that singular, mortal instinct; avoid death.

Even if a person went on to live again.. that didn't mean that nothing was _lost_. And for a creature so similar to a person to seemingly long for death when it was perfectly avoidable.. It defied the teen's basic instinct, and he allowed himself to blurt out his first thoughts.

"Why give up now?," he quietly questioned, his tone as subtle as if he had been talking to himself only.

"Oh, skychild!," the spirit hissed, sounding no different than an adult who was, indeed, scolding a foolish child, "..are you aware of how preposterous you sound? The gravity of your foolishness is overwhelming! My absence should be something you strive for, for the sake of yourself and your entire race. Do you have any idea how many humans I've slaughtered in my lifetime? That business in Faron Woods was tame in comparison to things I've done in the past-"

"I'm not like you!," Link interrupted, his voice sharply cutting off the words of the spirit. (He didn't want Ghirahim to further the details.) "I don't just.. kill without thought or consideration."

The teen shook his head, trying to rid himself of the painful confusion. His fingers raised up to tangle into the blonde hair that hung over his forehead, and he pressed the leather of his gloved palms against his closed eyes, hiding in the darkness. He could remember the first time he killed another creature; it was also the reason that he disliked being around Remlits, period.

He was a foolish child. He didn't understand things. He didn't know that it was even possible for any creature who was passive and affectionate during the day to become so feral in the absence of the sun. He was unaware that an adored friend who had let herself be held and cuddled by a lonely orphan during the day wouldn't allow the touch of affectionate fingers at night. He didn't know that his friend would turn and pounce upon him mercilessly, gnashing at him with sharpened pin-teeth and claws like tiny hooks. He didn't know until it happened, and he found himself helpless to escape the attack, helpless and afraid until his hand grasped at a rock that had practically leapt into his reaching palm. Link hadn't known the meaning of death until he watched a tiny creature writhe in the throws of agony, mewling in a gurgle of blood as it was bashed to death.

He didn't know. He still didn't know. He didn't, because he didn't want to. He didn't want to understand.

The boy took a breath, remarkably surprised that Ghirahim had even given him the space to gather himself. He lowered his hands away, and let his gaze fall upon the one who laid helplessly before him, unable to fight. In a quiet voice, he spoke a seemingly simple request, "Explain it to me."

Exasperated, and utterly frustrated that his simple threats toward human life were no longer doing the job, Ghirahim let a sigh escape from his pained chest. He turned away from the stubborn child who was gaping at him, not wanting to let the child _see_ him for what he was. He didn't want to be understood, he was too proud to confess the truth. He was too determined to maintain his dignity through the loathing he felt, the absolute loathing that he couldn't break free from. Yet, after a moment of contemplation, the spirit ruefully resigned, bitter at being dissected alive, more or less.

"..I spent my life trying to cheat the purpose of my creation, trying to do the opposite of Hylia's intentions for me, to create a new purpose for myself.. But I failed at that," Ghirahim paused, digging a canine into the flesh of his lip. He wondered if he could simulate enough discomfort to fool himself in to believing his mouth had been stitched shut and that he couldn't speak at all. 'Curse that Hylia!,' he screamed inwardly, 'Curse her for not leaving me destroyed beyond speech.' "In the end," he forced out, "..I fell into her hands, and her design, and for that.. I cannot help but loathe myself, and everyone else, and all the time I wasted. All of it, pointless!"

A sudden hiss of fury was emitted, in a fit, from the spirit, and it quickly evolved into a growl as he bashed a single fist against the floor, cracking the stone with the strength of his rage. This all was highlighted with pain at his very own movement, and he tensed from it, but felt further clawing at his chest and biting his tongue some contradictory form of comfort.

"..calm down..," these were the words quietly spoken before careful fingers poised themselves upon the spirit's shoulder, stilling him from his loss of control. He laid still at the feeling of Link's hand, yet it was drawn away as quickly as it had tapped the cold, bare skin of the spirit's shoulder.

When the hand was removed, Ghirahim forced himself to move anew. This time, he rolled onto his side, partially in an effort to escape the pressure against his back, and partly to avoid looking at the terribly soft child he was troubled with. "Just face it, Hero," he spoke bitterly, his voice soft as he did so, "..this one can't be saved or changed, no matter how compassionate you are."

Another morose sigh proceeded more quiet confiding, "It's over now. My purpose has ended. The end is all that's left."

"It's true what I've been told, then," Link spoke up, "You were created by the goddess.. but you served Demise out of the desire to disobey her, because you wanted to rebel against your intended purpose.. but why?"

"I don't know if you're trying to _charm me_ or _torture me_," Ghirahim remarked as he cast a disapproving glare over his shoulder. But.. as those dreadfully curious, and dreadfully innocent blue eyes remained trained on him, he couldn't help nor prevent the piercing feeling that came over him. He had only ever confided in his previous master, and.. Demise merely used the truth to mock him, in the end. (It appealed to his ego that 'the Hero' wanted to know, anyway.)

Link said nothing. The silence grew heavy. Ghirahim gave in.

"Because," he uttered, still agitated that he was even bothering, "I was created to be powerful and magnificent, and to be proud ..yet I was also created to be imperfect, to be weaker than the Goddess's sword, and bound by ceaseless failures against my sibling creation. I was cast out upon my birth, and tossed into the mortal world for any who would take up my blade. In this way, I was left to become defiled, an in fact, I welcomed that detail with joy, thinking that I could create boundless turmoil. But the sole reason for my being, the only point in which I was given life, was to become irresistible bait for Demise, who became my master, and.. to be his weapon against a sword I knew I could not win against, simply out of design. I was created flawed so that he wouldn't be able to win... I tried so hard to defy my fate, and yet.. I could not do so. If I were to remain in this world, my master's reincarnation could surely come to wield my blade, and I would become a liability, yet again.. That is something I cannot accept."

Silence; this was Link as he listened; this was Link as Ghirahim finished; this was Link now. That creeping feeling was coming over him again, he felt it. His own guilt and self-pity, his own selfishness. He knew that punishment was a necessity, concerning the evil beings of this world, but.. Ghirahim was something altogether different from Demise.

But Ghirahim wasn't going to change. His hatred for life was crystal clear. His desire for bloodshed was something that would never be erased, as it had been part of him since his most wretched beginnings.

Still.. It was sad. Very, very sad. Link dared not say anything. That was why there was nothing now, but silence. Instead of speaking, the young hero decided to be driven by action. Silence was golden. It helped the younger male feel settled to act rather than to thoughtlessly speak.

Link lifted from his kneeled position, coming to his feet, though he kept his knees bent, and he remained on the same level as the sword spirit. He reached out to Ghirahim now with purpose, no longer caring if he got any answer to his previous question; he had decided to move Ghirahim, just because.. (That, and Ghirahim wouldn't say yes or no.)

What was remarkable, however, was how much energy the injured spirit had regained and how it was revealed in this moment as Link tucked one hand beneath the spirit's knees. Ghirahim, appearing as if it involved little effort, managed to lift his own upper body from the ground, keeping himself supported with one elbow against the stone; his other gloved hand began to swat at Link, attempting to shove him away in sheer indignance. (And his slaps weren't anything to shrug at.)

Most words were lost in the struggle that followed. Link fought to keep one hand in place as he attempted to find grip on the larger creature who was putting up a rather severe fuss. The only major trouble was that each time Link tried to get his other hand around Ghirahim, a flash of blinding white came to strike at his face, forcing the teen to, in turn, draw his arm back to protect his visage. When Link finally turned his head to get outside of the reach of Ghirahim's one hand, the spirit started trying to grab at Link's arm and shove it back, which he succeeded in doing several times. This was all narrated with various bouts of unimportant demands and curses, such as, 'be still!', 'take your hands off me!', 'I'm trying to help!', 'I don't want your help!', 'I don't care!', 'troublesome brat!'

When the fight at last ended with Link sharply drawing the injured spirit up from the floor, he let out his own sigh of annoyance. Ghirahim really was a creature of double standards; he was allowed to ignore the concept of personal space himself, but when somebody else touched him, he took quite a deal of offense.

Link was glad that Ghirahim stopped struggling the moment he was lifted, though. He was no lightweight, despite how lean and graceful he appeared in form. The Hero almost immediately was forced to adjust his grip on the spirit, jostling him in the process, and drawing out another offended grunt.

The walk to the door was just as strained, slow and steady, the footing unsure in the darkness. Link almost couldn't tell where he was going; he could make out a small crack that was the front entranceway of the temple, due to the soft, silvery moonlight peeking through the crevice between the stone doors. This is what he focused on, while taking cautious steps all the while.

(Link didn't know, but Ghirahim's vision in the dark must have been more keen. Somewhere along the way, the spirit whispered,'there's a pot there', which Link managed to locate with his foot about two steps later. Here, Ghirahim hissed, 'clumsy wretch!' as he grew rigid an what must have been the thought of being dropped carelessly.)

The mockery did not end, either; Link could suppose it was the punishment for his show of compassion. As the teen managed to kick open the temple door, feeling his skin instantly prickled by the cool air of the night, Ghirahim idly taunted the boy who was carrying him.

"My master could carry me in one arm as if I were weightless," he scoffed, "Yet a puny creature like you defeated him? It's laughable."

Link settled in the first thick patch of grass he came to, and laid Ghirahim back down, more than happy to do so. In reflection, he had absolutely no idea how he had gotten him all the way through Faron Woods, and back to here. He would probably be sore tomorrow from the effort.

It felt like it had only been a short while since Zelda and Groose left the Sealed Grounds, but the air had succumbed to the chill of night, as if the area hadn't seen the sun in ages. The blonde teen, still wanting a break from the conversation, didn't bother questioning Ghirahim's comfort any longer; he could ask the spirit if he even _could_ _get_ _cold_, considering how he was dressed, but he really didn't want to bother. (He didn't expect a straight answer, either.) Link wandered off in search of dried grass and leaves for kindling, broken sticks, bits of wood, and whatever else he could use for starting a fire. If anything, _he_ was cold.

The young hero returned with an armful of usable materials, and quietly vanished into the dark once again to return to the temple. This had been for the purpose of fetching the lantern that had already been lit, and he made use of the tiny flame to ignite a handful of straw shed from the surrounding trees. The tiny torch was carefully placed beneath a stack of wood, into a pile of dried vegetation which sparked to life almost before Link could even draw his hand back.

Link jerked his hand from the flame as it flared into an inferno, and glimmered with hot, yellow light for a minute or less before dying down to a dull crackle as the bark from the wood began to sizzle, and catch flame, and the starter material was rapidly reduced to ash.

"Foolish boy..," came Ghirahim's voice, addressing Link now without the younger male initiating conversation, "..you're dawdling."

"I wanted to say..," Link began, his voice filled with uncertainty. He had completely lost his reserved act, and his doubt was showing, "..I understand your resent. I do. But..," the young male turned away from the fire that was now thriving, and let his stare fall upon Ghirahim as his silver skin was illuminated in hellish orange light. The fire danced in the creature's reflective black eyes as the two enemies' gazes met, and Link set his expression with utter sincerity, "..It's over now. Why not just.. move on? Forgive."

Nothing was said for the longest while, and Link carefully watched his adversary's expression; Ghirahim did not shift, not for a while, yet his starless optics showed no sign of consideration or contemplation, aside from perhaps wondering what _the hell_ Link was thinking. The first, small shift that Link noticed was almost undetectable. He felt he caught sight of the shadows on one side of Ghirahim's face move along his cheek, just above his jawline, as if the spirit had clenched his teeth, or was chewing the inside of his lip.

This one subtle sign was immediately followed with some that were more noticeable; Ghirahim's hands clutched at the earth beneath his palms, his fingers scraping at the grass until it was yanked up with the slow, agonizing tearing-sound of its roots being snapped apart. His fists were balled so tightly that they trembled.

And, finally, when Ghirahim could no longer hold nor extinguish the burn of insult he was feeling, he pulled himself up onto his elbow again, and glared furiously in Link's direction.

"You and that mortal replication of Hylia are just the same!," he spat his words, the narrow bridge of his nose wrinkling in display of precisely how livid he had just become at such a simple-sounding suggestion, "Neither of you have enough experience in life -_or anything at all_- to act so righteous, parroting that same 'forgiveness' garbage!"

Dragging himself further upward, Ghirahim finally clawed himself to sit fully upright, his hands racing to his injured chest as the effort brought about further bleeding from the remaining wound.

Link tensed, shuffling back a bit in seeing the weakened spirit regain enough strength to force himself up; Ghirahim was in no condition for a fight, yet in the fire's light, his bitter hatred radiated a feeling of danger, of bloodlust. He was like a powerful beast, driven back into a corner, bleeding, in pain, and blinded with desperation, with anger.

"Tell me, sky child, I'm curious-," Ghirahim hissed bitterly, his lips drawing back enough so that his sharp, upper teeth glinted in the light. They weren't as carnal in appearance as they were in his more powerful form, but they were definitely longer than a human's. His head tilted slightly to his left, his white hair falling back from his face so that both eyes could glare down upon Link, shining black with malice. "Your beloved Goddess begot a creature that she sent into the world, knowing it would kill her people at every opportunity, so is she really so loving? And, in forging me for the purpose of malicious deeds, I have done nothing that I was not meant to do, but will I be _forgiven_ for doing exactly that? Will my defiled spirit be redeemed, or am I bound for destruction? Tell me, what do you _think_?"

"..I-," Hesitation was all Link could manage; he had no answers, "..I don't know."

"That's absolutely correct!," came Ghirahim's voice again, his tone unchanged, "Your feeble mortal mind is geared to live without questioning your own purpose, and to complete a very simplistic set of functions before death. You were made to be stupid and ignorant, and that is precisely what you are!," with renewed movement, the spirit pushed himself up, onto his knees, and forward, until his palms dropped from his chest, down to the ground, and he raised his head to maintain his glare in the troublesome Hero's direction.

As he focused upon Link, he begin to crawl toward him, the gaping hole in his chest spilling blood from the force of this position, and the sudden exertion. The flow from the puncture was steady, wet droplets audibly splashing against the ground each time Ghirahim moved, but he was beyond being stopped by this. His voice was more strained as he spoke, but he did not falter, no, he kept going, determined, "I am not so lucky as you. I live knowing that if I'm granted the slightest mercy, my soul will be fragmented and I will be reduced to _nothing_; however, it is more likely that I'll be torn apart, and the pieces will be scattered into a hundred different dimensions of tormenting purgatory. For me, there is _no hope for forgiveness_, and so it isn't in me to forgive either!"

"If that's true," Link growled, his own voice taking a threatening tone as Ghirahim's hand was thrust toward him, clutching Link by the ankle in a grip that was tight enough to cause pain, even despite the leather encasement of the young male's boot. "shouldn't you want to live at any cost?"

As Link spat his own words, trying to reason with the crazed spirit, he also realized that this entire situation was beyond the grip of rationale. His hand's movement held no hesitation as it rushed to draw the practice blade from his back, his fingers tightly gripping the sword by the handle, the leather of his glove moaning softly from the strain. The blonde boy's elbow pulled back as his arm bent, and he held the tip of the blade straight, aimed toward the spirit's vulnerable chest, then he thrust it forward.

But the sword was captured before making contact- It was not caught between Ghirahim's fingers as usual, but instead, he had grasped it fully with his entire hand, the sharpness of the sword clearly of no consequence as Ghirahim tore the weapon from Link's clutches, and he tossed it over his shoulder with force.

Defenseless, Link was pinned down to the ground beneath the larger male, his wrists captured as he struggled to free himself, but Ghirahim answered the previous question despite the situation. "Continuing to live means continuing to remain bound to failure. And if it means assisting any force that stands against that damnable Hylia, I'd rather face eternal damnation," the angered spirit hissed, finally forcing Link's arms down against the ground.

"Why don't you just hurry and do your job, Hero?," Ghirahim's voice lowered to an amused purr, satisfied now that he had turned the tables, "The goddess chose you; she chose you for an endless cycle of servitude in battle, in _killing_. This is what _you_ were _meant for_. This is all you will _ever_ be meant for."

"..no," Link, tiring, or perhaps just giving up, fell still beneath the weight of his enemy. He turned his head, trying to ignore what Ghirahim was saying to him, but.. no, he had already heard it, and suddenly.. Suddenly, it made sense. He was right. There really was no escape. "...No, no."

In the still between the two locked foes, Ghirahim could feel Link trembling beneath him. It wasn't in fear, he knew that much; it was in a race of panic, and horror, and realization, because.. Link was such a tender soul. He couldn't handle all the violence, and it was cruelly amusing for the twisted spirit, watching another soul flail, victim of the goddess's tortures and abuse.

At first, the spirit softly chuckled, releasing the wrists of the boneless child who now laid helpless beneath him, as if to test Link's docility. He then slipped one gloved hand beneath the blonde boy's head, and lifted him up like a doll, so that they were eye to eye. His other arm coiled around the smaller male, his hand resting against Link's back, supporting his weight.

In a calm, affectionate whisper, Ghirahim spoke, watching the distance from reality growing more immense in the clouded blue depths of Link's optics, "I think you're beginning to understand my suffering a bit more intimately now, aren't you?," the spirit licked his dry, pale lips as he hovered near the goddess's hero, so close that he could feel the warmth of Link's panicked breath against his face, "..poor child, too gentle for your fate.. It's maddening, becoming -_aware_- of the fact that you're a _slave_, isn't it? It _hurts_, _doesn't it?"_

Ghirahim paused, still watching Link's beautiful, piercing eyes as the light of his spirit seemed to fade from within, breaking apart into innumerable, tiny fragments that surely could never be pieced back together. The hand from behind Link's head slowly moved around to caress his cheek, the touch seeming tender, though the spirit smirked cruelly in satisfaction.

"There is no mercy for _either_ of us," Ghirahim cooed, "We are.. the same. That must be why I've been so drawn to you all along. I've always known we were connected, you and I. We're connected through fate, the two of us tangled together in its web of tortures... but you can offer me the tiniest bit a peace. You can, because your unselfish heart can withstand temptation long enough to see me destroyed."

"Stop it," Link breathed, his voice almost completely inaudible; because of this, he drew upon whatever was left of his determination, and steeled his resolve, finding enough fight inside to harden a glare toward the starless eyes that stared back into his, so very close, and he repeated himself. "Stop it."

Ghirahim shook his head in disapproval, his voice mockingly chastising Link for his resistance, "You mustn't regret my death, Hero. You must fear that I continue living," the hand upon Link's face now lowered, locating one of the blonde male's hands, and Ghirahim cupped it in his own, drawing it up so that Link's gloved palm traced over the spirit's wounded chest, the blood staining the teenage hero's fingers, "..because I can still cause as much pain and death as my master would have. I can and I would, because it would satisfy me."

In rebellion,(or disgust, maybe) Link yanked his hand from the spirit's grasp, and shoved against the larger male in an attempt to push him off, to escape. All that he succeeded in doing, however, was riling Ghirahim back up to anger, at which time the spirit harshly let the back of his hand mercilessly strike Link in the face, and the young hero fell back.

Ghirahim followed, ducking down near the male beneath him, hissing new promises of violence into Link's ear, "I could kill your Zelda, remember? Do you have any idea how much pleasure I would get from that? By tomorrow I'll be strong enough to overpower her," Ghirahim smirked cruelly, the imprint of his smile close enough for Link to _feel_ against his own skin and know that he was grinning.

"..I think it would be nice to hang her upside-down, and slowly cut her down the middle. This way, the blood would rush to her head, and keep her brain alive long enough to feel the -entire- process," Ghirahim snickered menacingly, "That would be rather delightful, actua-"

Before he could get his final word out, the sword spirit was jarred from his balanced straddle as Link bucked violently beneath him, toppling him down onto his own back, where the young hero easily rolled up onto his knees, and found himself astride the larger male, reversing the struggle of power between them.

This did not immediately offer an assurance of dominance over the situation for the blonde male, because even though the spirit beneath him was still significantly weakened, he had also regained enough strength to struggle. That was easily enough halted, however, with one quick strike to the spirit's damaged chest from the only weapon Link had immediately at his disposal; his fist.

It was an instinctual movement, though not entirely devastating to the pinned spirit; it caused a moment of pain to sharply still Ghirahim, and he glared up angrily, insult glinting in his narrowed eyes at being beaten on as if he were some rag doll.

That glare faded away at just the slightest gesture, the creature's pale lips twitching into a vile smirk which the tip of his tongue slithered out to lick, wishing it could only savor the taste of the moment when Link's gloved hand fidgeted nervously near his ankle, and at last brought out the blessed blade. In a soft purr, Ghirahim addressed the naive child that had his weight rested atop him, "..that's better, my soft, little hero.."

Slowly, Ghirahim's hands moved up to his chest, his fingers tugging at the hem in the diamond shaped opening in the fabric over his chest, and he splayed it open further, beckoning the final strike.

"Go on..," his whispered, "Quickly."

Link stared down, poised on the borderline of what should have been considered victory, yet he could only sense a defeat to come. He was faced with the choice, now, to kill one of the goddess's creatures, one that had fallen from grace, one that.. he felt, maybe, maybe, he could understand, if he tried... but how far was Ghirahim from reprieve? Would it be impossible to rinse the blood from his tarnished steel?

..yes.. It was impossible. A being of such twisted imperfection simply could not repent, and could not be changed ..He was dangerous.. Death was the only option.

The hand that clutched the blade trembled nervously, Link's unsteadied will showing in his movements. His hands, they were covered in blood already, and one more evil creature shouldn't have mattered. But the unsettling question remained; would this be the one that forever stained Link's very soul? Would this be the blood that dragged him into the inescapable darkness?

Link wanted to put the violence behind him forever. He wanted it all to be over and done with. He wanted to escape the absolute hell that his own destiny had become.. and now it seemed that the only way out.. was through the chest of another living being.

Ghirahim was still. He didn't move one single muscle. He simply waited, his eyes fathomless and cold, prideful and fearless, yet they were as yielding as the rest of the spirit as he waited for the finishing blow with patience, letting the teen ready himself for the pain of the strike, as well. Silently, he bid that Link not back down. Without a word, he pleaded for it to be so, demanding it, welcoming it, if only the Hero could accomplish it.

The blade was lifted, Link's other hand coming to grasp it as it hovered ready to come down. The Hero would place all of his strength and accuracy behind one thrust. He refused himself a mishap. If he had to kill, he would do just as he was instructed to, and finish it quickly. He wanted to close his eyes, he didn't want to see himself do this, but.. he could not look away. Link took one last a deep breath, steadying himself, then he swiftly brought the blade down to puncture Ghirahim's chest.

The spirit restrained a hiss at the sudden invasion, his neck sharply straining to one side, as if to escape the sudden pressure in his core, his breath banished from his lungs, his chest unable to rise, an unbearable weight crushing him, asphyxiating. He was completely unaware of Link as the boy shuffled off of him, as it made little difference. His hands gripped at the ground beneath him, squeezing it; he refused to writhe or scream from the agony of being purged by the rinse of opposite energy rippling through him. It tore through his center, almost as if it were bending back each of his ribs until he could hear them cracking, and tearing him in half, rushing through his veins like acid, the light energy bubbling against the dark, so slowly, so fucking slowly. The burn inside trickled through him, until it singed up from his bones, boiling his blood, and it radiated through his flesh. If one could describe the sensation of having their skin slowly burned away, or peeled off, it might perhaps be comparable. The pain invaded every sense, tearing apart the spirit in each possible way it could, making him think it couldn't get any worse just before doubling, tripling, tearing his muscles apart on the inside, while his own dark energy fought to heal, only to have it all torn apart again, until finally there was nothing left, and his body couldn't fight against it.

Ghirahim counted the seconds, refusing to utter a single sound, perhaps even unable to do so, until finally he could feel the bottom of his spiritual well of energy drying, the invasion of light energy lapping at it hungrily, until it was used up. It had felt similar to when the master sword was plunged into his core, yet he had been able to flinch away from it then, and now he could do nothing but face it.

Eventually, the pain dulled away as his body relented in the struggle. Everything dulled into a final tingle, which lingered for a moment, and was quickly replaced with complete, unfeeling, numbness. The only sensation left was a glow of warmth, consuming him from the inside, which, after all the pain, felt pleasantly paralyzing; it was almost like sliding into a freshly run bath, and dipping breathlessly beneath the surface, sinking.

One final breath was inhaled and exhaled, but the spirit's frame fell still much before that, and his consciousness faded away, his lifeforce vanquished. He dropped into such a deep, deathly rest, he could not feel, he could not sense, he couldn't even dream, and yet.. He was not yet at the edge of destruction.

Link watched as Ghirahim finally went slack, and seemed to lay peacefully upon the grass; Link had watched the light fade from the spirit's eyes just before they closed. The young teen slowly began to back up, pushing himself along the ground, until his back hit a wall. His legs were weak and trembling, as were his arms. His body was tired and sore from everything that had happened.

The teen looked down at his hands, finding that the leather of his gloves and his fingers were covered in blood. He gazed down at the consuming blackish-crimson, wiping at his filthy palms, only succeeding in creating dirty smears, until his vision blurred and he could no longer see the problem. The boy drew his legs inward, letting his face fall against his knees, and he curled his arms around himself, clawing at the material of his pants and his tunic. His breathing was rushed, erratic, and it was humid as he panted against the cloth covering his knees; it was almost suffocating, because he couldn't slow down, he couldn't stop, because he couldn't catch his breath. He was dizzy again, sick again; his gut was clenching, twisting, clenching. He wasn't sure if it was hunger or guilt, disease or self-loathing, he didn't know, he really didn't. His frame was shaking; he succumbed to a coughing spell, his breathing still too rapid, and he finally toppled onto his side, pulling himself up onto his elbows, if only to keep his own filthy hands as far away from the rest of himself as possible. His head was heavy, and all was dark around him, except the flicker of flame.

Link couldn't keep this all inside. He wanted to cry, to sob, he wanted to feel better, he wanted the violence to disappear. He wanted to go back in time, and keep himself from ever being a 'hero'. He wanted so much he couldn't have, and that he couldn't reach for, because he couldn't let anybody see him weak, because he didn't deserve any pity.

He was being chased by the haunting duty that was to be his, one lifetime after another, and he was running, running, but could he escape? Could he escape, or was he bound to this torment forever?

Somehow, Link caught his breath just enough, just enough to utter one nonsensical thought that had managed to dislodge itself from the chaos in his mind.

"We _are_ the same."

::

_..to be continued.._

:: ::

Link was certain that this would be it. He could feel it. He had figured this out. He could do it. Failure was not an option.

The young male cast a glance back at his best friend. Over his shoulder, he could see Zelda's pink dress fluttering in the gentle breeze. Her golden hair was caressed by the wind, and she lifted one frail hand to brush it away from her face as she watched Link with confidence.

The look in her eyes; she could feel it, too. Her crystalline pools were shimmering with belief and trust, and she softly nodded to Link, knowing she could count on him. Her soft, pink lips opened, just barely, as she whispered to her closest friend, urging him onward. "Go, Link. You can do this," she was saying, though her quiet voice was lost in the wind. Still, Link knew what she had said, because he could read her mind even before he read her lips.

Confidently, Link gave his head a nod of certainty in return, and just as his female friend had instructed him, he leapt from the immensely tall structure upon command.

Normally, it wasn't a good sign when a girl told a guy to 'jump off.' However, this was different. This was something Link had strove for and he couldn't disappoint his friend, because this event meant a lot to her. (It.. It meant a lot to him, too.)

Down he fell, the wind now violently whipping at his face. He was used to the feeling of descent, having jumped from Skyloft numerous times in the past. This feeling exhilarated him; it was something that felt natural now, instinctual. His blonde hair danced against his forehead, nipping his skin, and tickling against his ears as he descended.

"Link!," Zelda was calling. Her voice held a nervous tremble, and she had rushed to the edge of the statue, calling out to Link now because she noticed that he had yet to use the sailcloth, and that he was getting close to the ground. "Use it! Use it now! Use it or your going to hit the ground!"

Despite Zelda's frantic calling, Link knew he had this. He was confident, and as he had been telling himself before, failure was not an option. There was no way he could possibly mess up. The young Skyloftian knew how close he could get to the ground before he pulled out his sailcloth. He knew that if he got _just close enough_, he could finally have this finished.

He had it! He had it! He was directly above the target landing area. He was falling quickly. The space between himself and the ground was quickly shrinking, shrinking, and Link could only imagine that Zelda must have been covering her eyes. He smiled to himself, feeling victorious, and he spread his body out to slow his descent, just by a subtle fraction; he remained this way for just a few extra seconds, timing everything with utter perfection, and then finally, he grasped the sailcloth between his hands, and let it capture the air as he fell.

But just when Link thoughthe had everything perfect, and he had deployed the sailcloth, what seemed like a total disregard for the laws of physics occurred, _yet again_; despite the complete absence of shifting wind, and his weight tugging downward, directly downward, just as Link's boots were about to touch the landing area, he veered violently off course, coming to topple into the grass, completely off from his intended landing spot.

With a soft grunt, the teen came to land on his butt in the grass, while the sailcloth gently fluttered down to land on top of his head; he didn't even bother removing it as he sat, sighing in defeated frustration. Link crossed his arms over his chest, quietly fuming, or maybe he was pouting..

"Link!," Zelda called from above, "You missed the landing area again."

Link tore the sailcloth from his head, and clenched it in his fist as his gloved hand slammed against the grassy earth at his side, "How many times is it now?," he asked as he lifted his head to regard his friend who watched from above.

"..Hmm," Zelda hummed to herself, in thought, "I think that's the fifty-seventh time you've missed it."

Another frustrated sigh was pushed, with force, from Link's lungs as he crossed one leg over the other, seemingly making himself comfortable on the ground. "I got close that time, at least. Can we call it quits?"

"No way!," Zelda responded with a touch of agitation, "This is important, remember? It's your fault that you suck!"

"What?," Link exclaimed, turning sharply to regard his friend as she insulted him. (He'd like to see -her- do it!) "Whatever, Zelda, I'm done!"

In what seemed like a flash of movement, Link was off the ground and he was bolting toward the nearest edge, where he could jump off and mount his bird. He was fully intent on escaping to one of the small islands nearby in order to find some place to hide out until Zelda gave up on forcing him do this ridiculous ritual any longer.

"Get back here!," Zelda was screaming at Link angrily as he ran.

"Get Groose to do it for you!," Link called back before disappearing off the nearest edge.

::

_[Because we all know that, in real life, friends who have known each other since childhood aren't so patient with each other. Plus.. We were all thinking this anyway, right?]_

::


	5. Chapter 5

Hello to you all; Just a reminder to visit my profile, and vote for this fic as your favorite on my poll if you havn't already. Also, show me love and leave a review. =) Enjoy.

* * *

><p>[<em>Hello again adored readers,<em>

_Due to untimely rescheduling of the last episode, we were very sad to notice that the plans for 'The Fabulous Lord Ghirahim's' Q&A did not go over very well. As he only received one real question, we were left flailing in an attempt to appease him. _

_We were able to stall him by telling him that he received so much fanmail that we were having too much difficulty sorting through it all. He agreed to continue to appear in the program because of our little white lie, and because we agreed to allow him to 'edit' the dialogue of the last episode to his liking, which effectively gave him more speaking time than any other character._

_For now, we proposed that we would randomly select one of his fan messages for him to respond to, and that his full Q&A would be moved to a later date, which would appear as soon as the messages were sorted. So please, feel free to keep asking questions at your leisure, and when you, the viewers, have asked enough questions for the Q&A, we will present it at that time._

[However, Link might be forced to pay with his body in the meantime, _against his wishes_.]

::

[Ghirahim's mini Q&A]

/Sideways Jill asks: "Ghirahim, will you marry me? I love you more than anyone else who says they're your biggest fan. Seriously, marry me and we'll have 14 babies. I love you Ghirahim!"

Ghirahim responds: While this is most flattering, I'm unsure how to truly judge whether you are indeed my greatest admirer. My first thought would be to have my numerous adoring fans fight to the death over me, because it would be entirely amusing and rather gratifying.

However, if this were to occur, it would also minimize the amount of people who love and adore me.. That just won't do, because I deserve more praise than it is even possible to acquire from the entirety of the mortal population. I apologize, but I must decline your offer.

I will admit, though.. I'm decently intrigued by the suggestion of us having 14 children. If you can indeed detail a process for this to reasonably happen between a human being and a sword, I will firstly commit this information to my records, for my own personal use, and then.. maybe I will consider it.

Until then, I am most appreciative for your love, and return as much as I can possibly manage, from the depths of my blackened heart. Thank you. /

:: ::

::

Morning outside the temple of Hylia; the sacred shrine and the Sealed Grounds always shone with such radiance during the early hours. The stone structure of the temple and the goddess statue vividly reflected the pale sun on their hard, white surfaces. At morning, it was as if the wear from passing ages had scarcely effected anything, and it all stood as pristine and holy as it had surely been when it was constructed.

Descending here had Zelda feeling most calm and at ease. This morning felt, to her, as if it were the first morning in all of existence, the day still so untainted. The sun comfortably caressed her back and the golden crown of her head with gentle warmth.

As her faithful companion, an azure-feathered loftwing, came to delicately flap itself to a graceful landing, the young girl slid from the creature's back. The loyal avian extended its wings as its master dismounted, chattering worrisomely while its full, magnificent wingspan encircled the young girl. (She was still nervous about carrying Zelda to the surface. She might have been a bird, but she was perceptive enough to know that her master had 'disappeared' here for an extended period of time.)

Zelda softly laughed at her bird's behavior, but turned to wrap her delicate arms around her avian partner's beak as the sky-colored creature lowered its head to her. The young girl rested her head against the soft, blue down of the loftwing's crested head, and spoke kindly to her mount, letting the powerful creature know that everything would be alright.

With reassurances, the bird finally folded its elegant wingspan against its back, and allowed its master to walk away, before unfurling its wings all over again, and taking back to the sky.

"That's some protective mount you've got," Groose called out to Zelda as he jumped from his own loftwing, not nearly as troubled by jittery behavior.

A delicate hand was raised, and soft fingertips brushed over Zelda's pink lips as she laughed. "I think she believes I'm her baby, sometimes.."

Groose chuckled. "She probably just can tell that you're an important person. She's got instincts. She knew before any of us."

"Maybe," Zelda softly nodded her head to Groose as she came to walk closely at his side, and they ventured toward the temple entrance together. (Zelda found Groose to be a wonderful friend, these days. Everything that had happened recently did a quick job of maturing him, and since they both shared ideas about moving down to live permanently on the surface, they got along quite well.)

Groose only pulled ahead of Zelda's comfortable walking pace when they came near to the great, stone doors that led inside; the red-haired male pushed one side open, clearing the way so that Zelda could pass through without having to raise a finger. Zelda smiled her gratitude and thanked Groose as she passed by him, into the temple.

The Skyloftian girl continued into the temple, her light eyes peering around in search for her friend, who she'd worried herself sick over throughout the night. She couldn't help wondering if Link was alright after she left, even though she was perfectly aware that he could handle himself. Her flat shoes clicked with her footsteps, the sound of her entrance reverberating softly within the stone walls. Quickly, the pattering came to a stop, and she was left looking around, meeting no sign of Link.

Gazing here and there, almost too nervous to venture any further, Zelda could feel her thin brows knitting together in worry as she waited, hoping that her friend would reappear, and that he was just sleeping late, as usual. Her eyes flitted over the dappled columns of light that poured down from the cracks in the ceiling, watching as dust danced in the light, but she saw no trace of anything further.

"Link?," she quietly questioned, her bell-like voice echoing up into the high ceilings of the temple. The sound of her voice easily bounced from the stone, and back to her ears, forcing her to acknowledge a worrisome tremble that she hadn't previously realized had been there.

"Where is he?," came the deep timbre of Groose's voice as the tall male halted at Zelda's side and softly questioned, confused as to why Link would be absent, but not quite worried.

The yellow-haired girl shook her head, the soft cascade of golden tresses moving gently against her back, and over her shoulders; this was her saying, 'I have no idea', but not wanting to _say that_, because admitting it would deepen her concern.

After not getting any answer to her calling, she continued, slowly walking further into the temple, her head turning left and then right, carefully studying every corner and crevice for her missing friend. The young goddess-incarnate cautiously rounded a corner, laying her delicate hand upon a stone wall as she did, which served her well for keeping her balance, since a stream of light from the ceiling poured down onto her face, momentarily causing her to blink away from the radiance.

Zelda lifted her other hand to shade her face from the vibrance of the sun, though it sank from above her head, down to rest over her parted lips to stifle a surprised gasp.

The tree of life stretched up toward the ceiling, thriving and bathing itself in the light that slipped through the crumbling stone from above. The magnificent canopy of its leafy branches did not blot out the fullness of the sun that escaped below, however, and a circle of light managed to shine down upon the small, grassy area nestled in the crook between the tree's roots; there, cradled between the roots, as if merely resting in the soft carpet of greenery, laid Ghirahim.

Zelda first thought to look away, keenly acknowledging that the creature had a weapon buried in his chest; goddess or not, death and injury and bloodshed all felt weakening to Zelda, probably because of how tightly she was holding onto her human life as she had known it before awakening her own divinity. In that life, she was just a young girl, and had been sheltered from the harsh realities of the world.

But, before she could lower her gaze, Zelda began to contemplate bitter-sweetly; Ghirahim for all his darkness, seemed so peaceful as he laid in the light beneath the life tree.

In a tip-toe, Zelda crept closer, as soundless and mindful of her movements as a mouse skirting beneath looming human beings. Unconsciously, she must have been telling herself that if she made noise, she would disturb the resting being that she was approaching. It wasn't that she felt intimidated, as she was certain he would not actually awaken; this was something she did without thought. Groose, on the other hand, chose to momentarily remain at a distance.

When finally Zelda stood directly in front of the reclined, immortal being, she gaped in awe, her eyes comfortably fixated on him, finally seeing him differently, as if she hadn't truly _looked_ at him before now.

His skin was fully awash with sunlight, which glistened from him like an ethereal, silvery halo. It was akin to the soft, powdery pallor of Zelda's own flesh in the light, but with a reflective, silver undertone that had always seemed cold and gray in the dark. Now, however, Ghirahim appeared almost as if he would be warm to the touch, the heat of the sun gathering on him as it would on hard metal until it was unbearably hot. The effect was surely gentler on him, as his skin was obviously as soft now as any other human being's.

The spirit's white hair had fallen over half of his face in slight disarray as his head laid over to one side, yet its pristine color was untainted by dirt or blood, whereas his white clothes had been spattered with numerous splotches of crimson. (Mostly his own.) The vibrant absence of hue captured the light of the sun just as much as the spirit's skin, and reflected it in a colorless luminosity. Zelda carefully pushed the white locks away from Ghirahim's face, her fingers delicate and unsure, though she maintained her steadiness as the sleeping spirit's resting expression remained unchanged and peaceful.

'He looks..so helpless, now,' Zelda thought, sparing the slightest inkling of admiration, if only for his beauty. She was forced to admit to herself, Ghirahim was certainly a magnificent creature; it left her all that much more disappointed in knowing how sharply he refused to accept her when she attempted to reach out to him.

With a sigh, the young girl's eyes drifted away from the body of the spirit before her as she heard Groose, at last, come nearer. He drifted only within arm's length of her, but didn't disturb her wistful silence. In thought, Zelda's mind and gaze both wandered, concern for Link troubling her all over again. (He still had yet to appear.)

It was because of how Ghirahim had been placed, and how he rested now, like an abandoned, broken doll, as well as his captivating vibrance in this position, that had kept Zelda's eyes from catching sight of an image that was entirely different. Now, only as her line of sight just happened to stray from the trunk of the life tree, and along its side, did she note something else that had been left here.

This object was left to seem like a shadow, yet it should have been wholly impossible not to notice. Jammed down into a crease between the stone in the floor, where surely a tree root had cracked the bricks, was a massive sword. It's size was almost incomprehensible, and certainly was utterly impractical for mortal use. Zelda took a few steps around the towering tree, in order to position herself, now, in front of this abandoned blade.

The steel of this particular sword was, indeed, like an endless pit of shadow. It was as stark and black as it could have been possible for anything to be, yet the surface held a glossy shine, like polished obsidian, as if the blade had never seen battle, or that it simply couldn't be nicked or scratched.

This dismal hue must have been some kind of aesthetic finish, however, because the steel itself was clearly a gleaming silver that almost shimmered pure-white along the sharpened razor-edges beneath the contrast of black. These razor-edges were not straight or even in a gentle curve as most man-made swords; instead, they jaggedly reached outward, like thorns or claws, or some other carnal force of nature that served the purpose of drawing blood.

It was a monster of a sword. It looked fit for a monster to wield. Zelda's eyes looked between the sword and the sleeping spirit; she knew that this blade must have been the sword to which Ghirahim belonged, but.. it almost seemed mismatched.

Glancing back to the sword, again studying its fearsome mass, Zelda finally let her gaze halt on one tiny detail. The young girl took a few steps nearer and leaned in ever-so-slightly; upon a closer inspection, she discovered one minuscule detail she had overlooked initially. Etched into the steel of the blade, and set in gold, was the crest of the Triforce, the mark of the goddess Hylia, which was framed with elaborate designs.

It was curious. The mark stirred something in Zelda that she couldn't quite grasp, and it slipped through her fingers as quickly as it had come along. Still, she was left reaching for something, her inner questioning too much to bear, yet she dared not allow herself to reach too far; she was bitterly afraid to lose the person she was, bitterly afraid to allow herself to ever become one, fully, with Hylia.

"What a sword..," Groose's voice piped up quietly, in amazement as he finally took a few steps closer, examining the blade from behind where Zelda stood. Surely, the red-headed male had never seen a weapon quite like this one.

Unable to sate her own questioning thoughts concerning the golden marking upon the sword, Zelda lifted her hand, carefully, to touch the crest. The delicate appendage hovered in air as the blonde girl remained cautious, unsure if she should dare to lay her hand on such a sword as this; she could see that the gold, itself, had been stained slightly red from so much exposure to blood and gore, and that alone left the young girl feeling a bit queasy. Nervously, Zelda bit her lip, but she pushed her doubt aside, and finally let her fingers graze the smooth surface of the Triforce crest.

And just like that, with one simple connection, one seemingly inconsequential touch, the girl's mind was suddenly pulled down into a darkened recollection, communicated to her from the sword itself. It flowed up from her hand, straight into her head, pouring sights and sounds into her, flashing behind her eyes, in her ears, inescapable as it was forced upon her.

There was the endless overture of screams; screams of agony, pleas for mercy, curses of vengeance. It was all laced with never-ending blackness, flashing vividly with the hellish orange cast of an all-consuming inferno, fire gorging itself on living flesh, and the scent of smoke, of mortal life ending in a wash of spilled crimson, steel against flesh, _inside flesh_, terror, hatred, fury, and so much despair, more than anything else, despair, despair.

Zelda could feel it all in this one moment; she could hear every thought, every uttered word of each victim and every creature to ever fall prey to the blade's wretched will. She could feel all of their emotions, all of their regrets, and her frame trembled as the overwhelming feeling of death passed through her; the thoughts, the pain, everything, as life flickered out over and over again, all at once. It was a chaotic rush of pain, and emotion, and so much noise, yet it ended in silence that was absolute and utterly empty, until nothing was left at all.

Nothing was left but the quiet seething of one last flicker of consciousness; one entity remained, one single voice, whispering as the rest fell silent. This one was grasping for something to fill the silence, something to appease an endless hunger, something to complete it, to make it feel perfected, and yet.. No matter what, there was nothing. There was nothing but lonely, endless abyss, and ceaseless despair, regret, despair, hatred, despair, despair, despair..

Suddenly, the loud sound of stone slamming against stone echoed loudly through the young girl's mind, and it freed her senses from the terrorizing effect of the blade. She blinked, her entire body jolting softly as she tore her hand back, and cradled it in the delicate palm of her other hand. She caressed the hand that had touched the blade as if it had been burned or she was otherwise in some sort of pain, doing this unconsciously as her blue eyes flickered sightlessly over the sword that sat before her.

As Zelda banished the flood of darkness to the back of her mind, she turned to finally face the noise that had severed her connection to the sword, and its overwhelming torrent of confessions. Groose had already spun himself round to face the opposite direction, and now both Skyloftian's peered toward the door that led out into Faron Woods, which now stood open wide, the sun's harsh glare blinding as it encircled the darkened silhouette that was poised on the threshold.

The soft click of boots pattering against the stone floor slowly counted the seconds as the figure in the doorway continued forward with steady steps, bringing himself to stand within the even ambiance of the temple. The shade of the temple walls closed around him, though he was dappled with the light that flowed in from above, and colored him the hue of a tranquil forest.

As the mysterious figure was revealed, both Skyloftians eased from tension to relief, laying welcoming eyes on the image of Link, returning from an apparent trip to Faron Woods. The young hero held one of the many clay pots from the temple in a secure embrace, the splish of water rippling within its confines chorusing the boy's movements. There was also the gentle echo of water droplets striking the ground beneath the young male, as wetness was wept from the green of his tunic, and the end of his hat.

Link approached his two friends, his expression calm and at ease, though his clothes clung tightly to him as his entire frame was soaking wet. His blonde bangs were tinted slightly darker from the water, tinged light brown, and they held fast against the skin of his forehead and cheeks.

"You two are a bit earlier than I expected," came the teen's gentle, even tone, "..sorry."

"Where were you?," Zelda spoke, her gentle voice curious and laced with the concern she had been feeling at Link's absence.

Quietly, Link walked between Groose and Zelda, passing them by, his deep blue eyes focused ahead, though they weren't taking in any one particular thing; he was absorbed in everything before him, yet distant. He continued over to the tree, halting himself near where Ghirahim was laying, and he poured a small trickle of water from the pot, down onto the roots of the tree, taking care not to splash the dormant spirit in the process.

"I went out for water," the blonde male explained, placing the pot down beside the tree before he turned back to face the others; he looked straight to Zelda and Groose, then cast a short glance over his shoulder, then back to his friends. "He wasn't going anywhere," Link motioned toward Ghirahim, "..so I just went out for a short while. Don't worry."

Though Link was obviously unharmed, Zelda's worries were not yet stifled. It was the same old nagging feeling she'd been having more often than she liked to acknowledge, the feeling that her friend had secretly been left in tatters after the recent events, and he only held himself haphazardly stitched together in the presence of others.

Link was always quiet and withheld; Zelda narrowed her eyes as she deliberated over this fact, knowing that something, _something_, was different. He seemed more aloof than usual, yet she didn't wish to trouble Link with her needless unease, so she sighed to herself, resigned, and walked over to her friend's side.

Instead, Zelda focused her anxiety on the object that she had already been much-too-closely introduced to; Ghirahim's blade. Light eyes reflected the image of the shadowy weapon within as Zelda looked upon its sizable mass. It wasn't so much the sword or the revelations that had passed through her mind that frightened her, but that the aura of the blade dipped into her subconscious mind, and somehow brought her most melancholy thoughts up from a place they had been buried.

The blade reminded Zelda of the day so long ago, when she was acquainted with a young boy around her own age of five; It reminded her of a day when she couldn't resist the urge to snoop inside the darkened crack of a front door that had been left ajar, only to find a cold, dismal home that was completely abandoned. The feeling inside the lightless, loveless walls that day was of loneliness and emptiness, given true physical form. The place was untouched by the warmth of family, things left eerily untouched and scattered, as if the couple that had lived there just disappeared one day, leaving behind a small boy, all alone.

And here, Zelda came upon that very boy, finding him bundled and alone, quietly tending to what Zelda later found out were wounds from a remlit attack; Zelda found this boy here, forgotten by the world, surviving by himself, without anybody else's help.

[This was also the day that Gaepora found himself becoming caretaker for an orphaned child who nobody seemed to know anything about, not even the boy himself. For the longest time, the child was completely mute, refusing to utter a single word, and only after a year's time, and Zelda's close companionship, did the boy begin to speak. He didn't even remember his parents; at least that was what he said.]

To say the least, Zelda found subjection to the sword's aura rather unpleasant. She expressed this plainly enough as she shifted her eyes from the blade to Link with a concerned expression, lifting her voice from silence to regard the blonde boy. "This is.. _his_ blade, then?"

Link had busied himself with dipping one of his small, glass bottles into the water he'd collected, yet he faltered in this task, letting his sapphire gaze flicker over to look upon the sword momentarily. "Yes," he spoke plainly, nodding his head. The blade indeed belonged to Ghirahim, and Link was aware, as it had been summoned to his hand upon command, and unsheathed from the spirit's very chest.

While the Hero reflected upon the events of this very morning, Zelda was left assuming that the teenage male was being withdrawn. In troubling times, Link tended to recede into the comfort of his own silence, his own personal defense mechanism against things that bothered him. (It was a trait that still held on from his childhood.)

"Link..?," Zelda questioned, the concern ringing clear in her voice again. It immediately drew her friend's attention, and he turned his blue eyes to her with a look of questioning.

"Did you notice," Zelda continued, now that Link was definitely listening, "..this blade possesses the crest of the Triforce?"

A pause- Link did not immediately answer; this was hesitation. Once more, he lowered his gaze away, hoping his friend wouldn't see the truth in his eyes. He was wary of mentioning this one small detail, thinking it best that Zelda be protected from it, though now Link was left with no other option, as his friend would certainly sense him hiding something. "Yes," the boy finally sighed, the volume of his voice low in unease, "...it is because Ghirahim was created by the goddess." (Obviously, it was something that Zelda hadn't recalled on her own. There was a very profound mental block between her mortal self, and that of Hylia.)

The sharp sound of a gasp echoed from the blonde girl's throat, her chest expanding with the sudden intake of breath, and her pool-like eyes seemed to ripple in surprise that she couldn't properly begin to process.

Ghirahim..? He was the goddess's.. no.. her _very own_ creation? Zelda's crystalline eyes ventured over to look upon the sleeping spirit as he laid in the calm light of the sun, now regarding him with an even deeper pity than before as she slowly began to piece together the true meaning behind their last conversation.

Regret- The teenage girl could feel it building in her heart, and yet, she hadn't a clue as to why. She thought back, again, to that young boy she found all alone, once upon a time. She remembered the lonely look buried deep within the near-lifeless confines of his piercing blue eyes, and now.. For one reason or another.. She began to wonder if there was any reason why she continued to relate that time to now.

For once, Zelda secretly beckoned Hylia into her, almost ready to let herself be erased as 'Zelda', if only she could have the answers... yet now, when she had finally taken down her guard, and sought out Hylia within herself.. The goddess was nowhere to be found, and Zelda was denied the truth.

"I should get going now that the two of you are here..," came Link's voice, stirring the girl who stood nearby from her trance.

Zelda looked at Link, meeting his gaze, looking inside him, just to see what she found; she wondered if he could offer any further explanations. 'Maybe,' she considered. At the same time, she came to note that her friend had closed himself up, and without even asking, she knew he was unwilling to talk. She could just tell; Link was practically her brother.. well, kind of.

Lowering her eyes, the girl just nodded her head. The glimmering golden strands of her neatly trimmed bangs fell forward, just barely keeping the look in her eyes from view.

While Link nodded in return, a spare thought passed through his mind, making itself apparent in the way he suddenly turned to look at Groose, who had remained silent as the others conversed. (Speaking of serious matters must have been wholly intimidating for him.) It was just as well, because Link simply asked politely that Groose remain here, and look after the blade, whereas Link's hand reached out to Zelda's and captured it in a gentle grip; the girl was coaxed toward the temple entrance as Link headed in that direction.

Without any fuss, and realizing that Link must have had more to say to her, Zelda followed Link outside the temple, coming to stand at his side right outside the heavy, stone doors. The blonde male shut the doors fast behind him before he looked up at his friend, meeting her curious stare with concerned blue eyes.

"Oh," Zelda uttered suddenly, before Link even had a chance to speak up. "I almost forgot about this." She hadn't meant to interrupt anything of importance, but the young girl truly had almost forgotten about the weight that had been tugging at her shoulders; this extra weight was that of a bag that was nestled near her hip, while the strap tightly clung to her, over one shoulder. She unfastened the strap that held the sack closed, and opened the top flap, reaching within to draw out the supplies she had promised to Link the night before.

"I brought potions and arrows," she quickly dug out the items she spoke of, and transferred them from her possession to Link's own. The glass bottles were carefully placed into his adventure pouch, while the arrows were drawn from one quiver and placed into the Hero's. (It had him wondering when Zelda had come upon her own quiver for arrows. Was she taking up archery?)

"I didn't know what else you needed," Zelda spoke softly, her voice still concerned, though she was also certain that Link would be fine. As she spoke, she drew out one last glass bottle; this one was not filled with potion, but something else. "Here," she said as she handed the bottle to Link, "I actually made this. It's just soup, but you'll probably get hungry along the way."

As the bottle was placed into the blonde male's hand, he gazed down at it, studying it intently. A slow, soft smile crept over his lips, then he tucked the last bottle away. "Thank you, Zelda," he spoke gratefully. He was otherwise silent, aside from speaking his gratitude, but he was becoming inwardly aware of how very thankful he was to have Zelda around for this, as opposed to being separated from her as he had been before. It was nice, if only because now Link had somebody looking after him, and fussing over him. It put him at ease.

But there was also something that swiftly disallowed the blonde male to feel so comforted. The warm smile slid from his face, leaving his countenance masked in seriousness.

"What is it, Link?," Zelda gingerly asked, seeing the worry in her dear friend's eyes.

"It's about the sword," Link answered gravely. He detested the thought of leaving Zelda _or_ Groose in the presence of that blade, after hearing of how it could effect people, but.. he also had no other option. "I want you to be careful, okay?"

"What?," came a confused utterance from Zelda. She wasn't unaware of the sword's aura, as she had experienced it for herself, but.. she didn't know fully how powerful it was, either.

"That sword," Link began, "It has the power to influence people. It draws on the darkness of the mortal mind, and it can cause people to act... strangely. That's part of the reason I was out this morning. It wasn't able to latch onto anything from me, I don't think, but.. I could feel it effecting my mood and my thoughts, so I know that it's a very serious matter, and it shouldn't be taken lightly."

"I see," Zelda nodded her head in understanding, "I think I already know what you mean. I felt differently around it as well."

"I'm so sorry..," Link's voice lowered to a whisper as his gaze dropped to the ground directly before his boots. His guilt and worry felt as if they were weighing down his very spirit in knowing that Zelda had been effected within a few moments of exposure. "I didn't want to involve you or Groose in this.."

"Hey," Zelda interrupted, "It's okay, we understand," a dainty hand reached out to Link, gentle fingertips laying against his arm in a comforting gesture. "You can't carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You have to let your friends help."

Link raised his eyes to look Zelda in the face, finding her lovely countenance calm, and graced with a warm smile; he didn't smile back, however. This show of uncertainty had Zelda hardening her stare when her friend met her gaze. "Don't take us so lightly!," she spoke.

Now, Link finally smiled back, nodding his head, though he still decided upon further cautioning. "I want you to keep control over things this time," Link explained, "Don't let Groose get so tied up in trying to protect you. This time, I think he'll need your protection just as much, because he seems more likely to be effected. Make sure he takes breaks away from the sword and don't let him touch it. Do whatever you feel is necessary to restrain the blade's aura, because it.. it is almost like a separate consciousness from Ghirahim altogether. The sword is bent on survival, and it needs blood to revive its spirit. Expect that it will be trying very hard to get what it needs."

Zelda nodded, speaking with certainty in her voice, "I understand."

Link could only sigh in response, quietly whispering the words, 'be careful,' again, his worries far from stifled. His arm lifted, his hand taking hold of the smaller one that had rested against him, and he gently pulled the blonde girl nearer to himself, his arms delicately encircling her in what was an embrace of both tender affection and immense concern.

"We'll be fine, Link," Zelda softly reassured her dear friend, letting the calm of her own heart press itself to his, as if her feelings could flow into him, and they could think and feel as one. "Have faith."

:: ::

Falling; finally Link's surroundings matched the feeling he had deep inside. He was toppling, down, down, the wind harshly beating at his face, rustling his blonde hair, and as much as he thought he was used to this ritual, he found himself surprised by this new area before he even reached the ground.

The young hero had rolled from the back of his loftwing, gravity immediately pushing against his back as he fell, while the air beneath him began to feel solid, and it applied its own force of pressure, compressing the delicate human body between the two opposing forces, so that Link's stomach slunk up toward his throat and his lungs fought to expand; this much was all normal.

But soon the teen was engulfed in the blanket of sightless mist that hovered just beneath Skyloft and the endless sky above; unlike other areas of descent, where the clouds had opened, Link was now unable to see if he was truly falling down, or if he was just toppling through an endless vortex of nothing. It steadily began to feel more and more as though this were true as the seconds turned to minutes, and the obscuring veil never lightened or thinned.

Link fell, down, down, through the infinite mist, until his heart was forced just as high into his throat as his stomach. A sea of gnarled, ashen, ebony hands surged up from the fog, grasping at Link as he fell right into them; the hands were actually the old, curled, disfigured tops of elderly trees that had been misshapen by the cruel passage of time, and they reached toward Link, clawing at his rapidly falling frame, brutally lashing him as he descended through the canopy, having been unable to see how close he was to the ground for the fog.

The teen reacted in the only way he really could, shielding his face with his arms, and closing his eyes as he drew his legs inward protectively; everything happened almost too quickly, so quickly that he barely acknowledged the pain of thorny branches nicking through his clothes, and scraping the skin beneath.

The subtle pains of the flesh were not so important, either. Being beaten and swallowed by the forest was not a very substantial punishment for his lack of preparedness. The only real thing the teen had to fear was meeting with the unforgiving solidity of the ground, and as he finally was spat from the forest canopy, left to drop straight down into the brush below, he drew out his sailcloth at the last moment, and it slowed his descent just enough so that when the blonde boy crashed and rolled upon the dew-soaked groundcover of moss and ferns, it felt more like stone.. But he did feel it, and he continued to do so, which meant that while it hurt, he wasn't dead.

Link groaned, knowing he was surely scuffed in all sorts of places beneath his clothes, but he lifted himself to his knees anyway, taking it slowly so that he could make himself aware of every part of his body; he took his time, seeing to it that everything was as it should be, and that nothing had been broken beyond repair. His knees were sore, yes, and it felt as though the area around his elbows had been thorn-slashed without much mercy, but.. he was still okay. It was nothing he couldn't handle.

Climbing back to his feet, Link rubbed his hands near the bottom hem of his tunic, his fingers and gloves soaked in dew from the ground, and covered with dirt, and tiny shed leaves from the overabundant ferns. He looked around absently as he did so, noting that he couldn't even see the greenery of the canopy through the immense thickness of the fog. In fact, the air itself was so thick and heavy with humidity that it was difficult even to breathe; the wetness of the air had collected upon the trees, their immense trunks darkened to black, as if it had just rained, and thriving ivy twisted its way up, clinging to the tree bark with choking roots and vines.

It was difficult, as well, to see very far in any one direction; Link had thought, perhaps, that he was already hopelessly lost, even though he had aimed to descend directly to his destination. As the blonde teen looked around, trying to decipher which way was what direction, he lost track of concentration, distracted by a sound he was sure he heard- Laughing.

Link knew that he could hear the sound of giggling- it was high-pitched and mischievous, and preceded a chorus of scampering footsteps, all around him. He heard it, yet he could barely see beyond the stretch of his own arm, and he reached up to draw his sword strictly out of instinct.

At first, the teen just thought he was being jittery, since he was partially deprived of his vision and disoriented in the mist, and that was why he ignored the very minute sensation of tiny fingertips tracing along the pointed tip of one ear. He ignored it, and it went away. But then, before relief had even settled in, Link felt the warm movement of fingers against his skin, more insistent than before, and he whipped his head to the side to face whatever was there.

The only problem was that there was _nobody_ there. There was absolutely nothing but a sound that resembled a flutter, and the same echo of laughter in the distance, the giggles raising in pitch as s_omebody_ out there watched Link flail, amused.

'Hey!,' came a tiny voice. The sudden sound almost, -almost- had Link jumping right out of his skin, or perhaps even falling over, his ankles caught up in the twisted vines and thick ferns below. He maintained his steadiness through his intense unease, as well as his balance as he searched for the voice he heard, in vain. No matter where he looked, he found nobody.

And the laughing from beyond the mist grew louder, more intense, more entertained at how helpless Link was.

'Don't listen to them,' the mysterious voice softly cooed, whispering directly into the Skyloftian boy's ear before he felt the sensation of those little fingers again, tugging at the red loop that dangled there. 'Turn around,' the voice instructed.

Link didn't immediately do as he was told; curiously, he brought his fingers up to carefully reach over his shoulder for the source of the voice. He didn't know what he was expecting, but he hadn't been simply imagining those faint sensations, because he almost immediately felt a swat against his hand as it was placed too closely to the source of the voice.

'Stop it,' the voice insisted, 'Hurry and do as I say. Turn around!'

Listening to a random voice that couldn't be associated with the visual of a person seemed like lunacy, especially while lost out in an endless, eerie mist; however, Link had no other real option, because he couldn't trust himself anymore than a disembodied voice. Awkwardly, he turned himself around, going slowly, not exactly sure which way he was supposed to be turning.

'That way!,' the voice cried out when Link was finally facing the direction he was meant to go. His blue eyes peered out into the empty mist and he began forward, still completely disoriented and utterly confused. He was also no less nervous, unable to ignore the constant sound of laughter that surrounded him; keeping his sword poised for action in one hand was the only thing that soothed him, even slightly.

"Who are you?," Link quietly asked the voice that was leading him. He knew that it surely wasn't -just- a voice, because he could still feel the enigmatic creature's touches as its minuscule weight fluttered away, and came to rest atop his head.

"I'm Surasu," the tiny voice responded sweetly, "Don't worry, the tree sent me to meet you."

"The tree... sent you?," Link questioned in a puzzled tone.

"Yes, of course," spoke the voice, the delicate ring holding just enough strength that her tone was audible; she spoke as if Link had just posed the most silly inquiry. "Keep going that way," she insisted, patting the top of Link's head.

'..okay,' the young Skyloftian simply agreed. As long as he was going in the direction of the tree, he would listen. He continued forward, seeing nothing ahead of him but the same endless thicket of massive trees, greenery, and fog. The air was wet and gray, and impossible to see through; Link hadn't a clue how the tiny creature perched on top of his head could find her way, either.

As Link trudged over the damp groundcover, and wove through the trees and numerous curtains of vines, he eventually came to what appeared to be the enormous mouth of a cave. The hole was gaping, and black, but as Link studied its surface, he came to realize that it wasn't stone, but wood. If not for the fog, he was sure that he would be able to fully make out the trunk of a gargantuan tree; this cave was nothing more than a crevice, winding through a parting between the roots which were much too large to hide underground. He said nothing, and since the voice said nothing either, he hesitated no longer, and began through the tunnel.

The pathway was not a straight one, in fact, it was almost a complete curve. On top of that, it grew darker with each step forward Link took, and it was also as humid and misty as the air beyond the hole. The blonde boy took careful steps, unsure of his footing, and he eventually brought one hand up to touch the roughened bark wall at his side, if only to be sure that he was still following the pathway, and hadn't gotten turned around.

All was silent; the stirring echo of laughter had been left behind, which Link was grateful for. But the darkness paired with the absolute still around him quickly became just as discomforting, or at least while Link was perfectly aware of another sentient being's presence. "Surasu?," he whispered, "Is this the right way?"

"Yes, don't worry," her voice responded, "You're almost there."

With a nod, Link softly smiled to himself, and he quietly thanked the tiny creature for her guidance.

Within a few minutes more of maintaining his steady pace, Link did at last come to the end of the tunnel. The shroud of shadow that had enclosed him broke in the distance, and he hastened his gait as he strode toward it, not needing to waste any time. The tunnel curved, and curved, so that Link couldn't quite see what laid beyond until he stood directly in the opening, and he was left staring out toward the space before him in wonder.

The area beyond the tunnel was just as hazed with mist as the forest behind him, and while the groundcover was as lush and green as before, here it was an open space of tall grasses and clover.

Link sheathed his blade as his blue eyes trailed up, up toward the cloud of fog that blotted out tree canopy and sky, but he found himself gazing in awe of something, despite the haze of silvery mist. Fluttering above was a flurry of innumerable colored lights, all dancing along playfully, following what seemed like a twisting jetstream, up and around the grounding image of a massive tree.

These little lights, like fireflies of a million different shades and hues, illuminated the surface of the tree, glittering through the dismal cover of fog, so that every nook and cranny of the tree's twisted bark could be seen in full detail. Like all the other trees, this one was twisted and gnarled, and had been scarred by various environmental woes, yet its wounds had healed, and it had grown immense in size, far into the sky above, and with arms outstretched so wide that no other tree dared grow near it, lest they be shrouded by its might. These limbs were difficult, almost impossible to make out; they seemed like blurry, winding bones in the fog, dotted here and there by the dancing lights, which Link could now identify with a sense of certainty.

"Fairies," he spoke as he stared upward, in awe of the sheer number of the tiny creatures, and the dazzling beauty of their luminosity as they all flitted here and there, "..so you must be a fairy too, Surasu?"

"Well, of course," the tiny voice spoke up as it was addressed. Finally, the flutter of wings could be heard as the tiny creature jumped from the top of Link's head, and came to hover before the boy.

At last, Link was allowed to look upon the one who had greeted him in the woods. She was as luminous as any other fairy, her vibrant, pale-green light almost too vivid to allow her features to be distinguished. Only when Link extended his opened hand to her, and she landed delicately in his palm, could he just barely make out the outline of her tiny body, the red dots of her irises, the soft pink tresses that crowned her tiny head, and the powdery-green color of her skin.

The fairy's glassy, clear wings stilled as she settled in Link's gloved hand, and the teen could feel the warmth of her radiance through his gloves; never had he looked so closely or spoken to a fairy until now, having regarded them as magical creatures that did very little outside of flitting around, and healing wounds out of mysterious compassion before darting off into nowhere.

"Go on," the fairy called out to Link, "you came here to speak with the tree."

Nodding his head, Link acted upon this reminder with haste, and raised his eyes to regard the massive tree that stood just beyond the meadow. He strode forward with confidence, much more comfortable here than he was in the forest itself. Surasu fluttered up to land upon the young adventurer's shoulder, sticking with him for one reason or another; Link didn't assume anything, because it certainly was no bother having a fairy companion. (He did think that her obligation to stay with him had ended in just getting him here, though.)

When the grassy, open space of the meadow laid mostly behind Link, he found himself staring up at the tree, his eyes tracing the details in its bark, sure that he could almost, almost, make out what appeared to be a very human-like face. It was astounding and wondrous all on its own, so much so that the teen had forgotten that Surasu even mentioned talking to the tree. So, of course, when a voice echoed out from within the tree itself, it caught the Skyloftian off-guard, and he jolted to an immediate halt where he stood.

"Thou hast come, hath thee, Hero of the Goddess?"

Though he was perfectly aware that it _was_ the tree who was speaking, and that it had indeed addressed him, Link couldn't help his sudden inability to respond, amazement effectively ridding his mind of a decent response.

"Be assured, young Hero," the tree spoke again, the strong, deep timbre of his voice laced with the calm tone of wisdom, "thine ears doth not deceive thou. It is the tree before which thy stand that speaketh to thy now. Tell me, for what purpose hath thou come to these hallowed grounds?"

It was bewildering; the tree may not have known why Link had come, yet he was perfectly aware of who Link was, and he also had the foresight to send a fairy to the area which Link came to land, knowing that the Skyloftian boy would be lost.

Shaking off the feeling of being wholly perplexed, Link finally regained his voice, and answered the question that had been posed, "I've come to request enough wood from you that I may forge a small chest as well as a sheath for the purpose of sealing an evil sword."

"Hnn," the tree hummed in contemplation, not at all thinking to deny the Hero before him, but merely absorbing the information he was granted, "Very well, young Hero."

"Also..," Link took a step forward as he recalled one last dilemma that was troubling him, "I have no idea how to get out of the forest. The water dragon assured me that you could assist? I'm meant to make haste in returning to where I left the sword, as it holds the potential to corrupt others and cause harm, with enough time."

"Indeed," the tree calmly, wisely spoke, "If thou were to tryeth to navigate the lost forest alone, thou wouldst surely lose thine way. To assist thee, sendeth a fairy I shall, to showeth thou the way.. Surasu?"

With a cheery laugh, Surasu bounced upon Link's shoulder, fluttering her wings joyfully. "Yes, yes!," she exclaimed, "I will guide him through the forest!" With another flutter of excitement, the fairy hovered near the Skyloftian's pointed ear, and perched upon it, giggling all the while.

"Now," the tree began, "Make haste, Hero of the goddess Hylia. Thou must brave the climb to reacheth my branches above. Surasu shall guide thee, and aid thee in climbing."

With a determined nod, Link hurried toward the tree, his eyes gazing up into the fog, and imagining the endless height that stretched skyward, yet.. he refused to back down or allow himself to give up.

He refused.

:: ::

Tools had been of little use; None of the adventurer's tools had aided him. The endless tower of the mighty tree's body was untouched by the hands of mortal creatures and there were no targets for the clawshots (Link kept wishing there had been). The most Link had to his advantage were a few scattered patches of vines scaling the bark of the tree, and a knowledgeable partner, pointing out each and every knob or convenient area for gaining a proper foothold.

Link knew before he had even climbed beyond view of the ground that he simply could not endure the climb. His sore muscles still ached from the previous day, and he felt as if he was tiring that much more quickly because of it. The young Skyloftian reached for something, anything to grasp, to pull himself up, stretching his body further than he believed he even could, and he trembled from the strain of pulling and lifting himself upward, upward, again and again. He stopped, panting, and glanced over his shoulder, watching as the ground slowly disappeared beneath a shroud of fog below.

'Keep going!,' Surasu would encourage, 'You can make it, just keep going!,' she would whisper into his ear as her tiny hands tugged at stray locks of hair.

'No, I can't make it,' Link would tell himself. The tips of his fingers felt raw from the nonstop clawing at the roughened surface of the tree's bark. He would admit to himself that he could go no further, yet even as he did so, he would look ahead, find another area to continue climbing, and he would reach for it, not stopping.

Even if he _couldn't_ make it, he wouldn't just _give up._

And then, at last, the outstretched branches of the tree came into view above, and Link pushed himself harder, fighting his way up with newfound force and endurance and might; he _could_ make it. He could.

'That's it!,' Surasu would say, 'Almost there! Almost there!'

Once Link reached the tree's mighty branches, the rest of the climb came easily. He had been unable to stop upon the first sets of limbs, finding them much too large for his use; he was forced to continue up, toward the sky, yet the further he fought, the stronger he felt, and not even the exhaustion that wracked his frame could stop him.

He made it. He didn't know how he managed, but.. he did.

Using his practice blade, Link hoped, _prayed_, that it was sturdy enough as he drew it from the sheath on his back; with precise strokes, he sliced at stray branches that were just thick enough for use. Once he'd gathered what he needed, he tied the supplies on his back, and thanked the tree for his help.

After that, he wasted no more time; he had jumped from the tree, descending to the ground easily and safely, using his sailcloth to lighten the fall. The pace felt almost unbearable, in all honesty. Link almost preferred to scrape himself up, he was so ready to hurry back, and to make up for lost time.

Link remained patient, waiting until his boots touched the ground, and then.. he ran. He ran beyond the meadow, ran beyond the cave that had led him here, and even in the dense fog of the lost forest, he hardly slowed his pace. Surasu sweetly praised him, having never met anybody so determined and tireless, yet even so, she bid him to slow down here and there so that she could look around, and regain her sense of things.

There were only a few times that Link complied and actually came to a halt. He stopped to catch his breath, he stopped to replenish his waning energy with the soup that Zelda had made for him and the bottle of water he'd taken along. After putting most of the forest behind him, along with numerous deka baba, keese, walltula, skulltula, and dark figures that danced just close enough to be seen, but still shrouded in enough fog to avoid identification, Link stopped once more for a red potion to reduce whatever damage had been done.

But otherwise, the Hero ran. He ran refusing to halt, sensing that time was ticking away. He ran, ignoring the burn in his legs, in his chest, and in his throat as it became raw from his panting. He ran until he escaped the forest, parting ways with the kind fairy that had guided him, then he ran until he finally located a bird statue.

Then, after all of this, he returned to the Sealed Grounds. That was where he was now. Here, he found Zelda waiting just outside the temple, almost as if she hadn't moved from the very place Link had left her.

As he approached, the soft sound of his tired footfalls caught Zelda's attention, and the glassy surface of her vivid, blue eyes lifted to look upon her friend. Her head was raised in a quick, surprised gesture, almost as though she hadn't quite expected to see Link back just yet, or maybe she had assumed that the sudden snap of a twig beneath somebody's foot was more likely a Bokoblin sneaking up on her. (Not that there were many left in Faron Woods, now.)

But as the girl realized it was Link, as she processed the image of him standing before her, her pinkish lips curled into a soft, warm smile.

'She's alright. Everything is fine,' Link reassured himself inwardly, heaving a sigh that was both in relief and fatigue. He felt he could collapse, his legs only barely holding his weight and quivering beneath it; the blonde teen paid it no mind, sending his own victorious smile back in Zelda's direction, saying without words that he had been successful in his mission.

Once more the sun was sinking in the distance, and Link stood here, at what seemed like the end of an impossible journey. It felt now very much as it had after he defeated Demise, and he returned to his friends to celebrate victory, knowing that things were _safe_, that things would be _okay_.

But then, the smile slowly faded from Link's face. He took slow, tired steps in Zelda's direction, but he maintained a neutral expression now, simply because he had reminded himself of one _other_ thing.. He'd _thought_ everything was finished, and that life would go back to normal at that time.. and he'd also been completely incorrect.

Zelda obviously hadn't let such doubt cloud her judgement; she joyously greeted Link with a tight hug, glad to see that he had returned unscathed _again_. She'd been worried. She'd endured tense hours as she waited for Link to return, and whispered prayers meant to restrain the dark aura of the blade she'd been guarding, which always turned into prayers that Link was safe. Now, she was all too happy to see him, and she nestled herself near the scent of pine and clover that clung to him just for a moment; as gentle as the embrace was, it nearly knocked Link onto his back, and admittedly.. He was content enough to succumb.

[He entertained the idea of sleeping for a full night and day, after this. Too bad it was far from over, still.]

"Is everything alright?," Link's calm voice questioned.

"Yes," Zelda nodded her head, amazed at how well things had gone; the aura of the blade had most certainly effected her, but.. she was an impossible target for it, which made the day much easier to bear than what her expectations had been. "I was just about to rotate watch with Groose."

Now, Link nodded in return, relieved in hearing that his friend had no worries to report. "You can head back to Skyloft for the night. I'll handle the sword from here."

"What is left to do?," the young goddess-incarnate inquired, curious to know when Link would be finished with this ordeal, still somewhat distressed over this process, regardless of how simple it seemed so far.

"Tomorrow, it will be finished," the teen answered, "Tomorrow, I destroy the blade."

Link's voice held firm and composed, calm, even as some semblance of regret remained apparent. Zelda softly nodded her head, accepting the answer, though with an equal amount of regret behind her eyes and in her silence. The two said no more to one another beyond this, quietly parting ways, Zelda to return to Skyloft, and Link to the temple, to relieve Groose of guard duty.

The temple door was jarred open, probably so that whomever stood outside could hear and see inside, just in case something happened; Link easily slipped himself inside and strode toward the area where he had placed Ghirahim and his sword earlier this morning. The sun had faded from above, leaving the inner walls a dusty-looking gray, and when Link came round the corner, he found that only a soft orange glow poured over the branches of the life tree, leaving a darkened cast over the resting spirit, the blackened steel of the sword as it sat in silence, and Groose as he slumped forward, his head hanging low while he rested on the stool.

"Groose?," Link called out to the other Skyloftian, his eyes observing the way Groose's back curved inward as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head dropped down as though his neck couldn't hold it up any longer.

'He must have fallen asleep,' Link told himself, hoping he was correct in this assumption as he took cautious steps closer, letting his boots click audibly against the brick tiles, thinking the sound would rouse the other male from slumber, or.. whatever it was.

"Groose?," he uttered again, even his voice making his wariness obvious. Yet, no matter how Link called out to the red-haired male, Groose remained as motionless as a statue, unchanged in his posture as Link finally stood directly behind him.

"Groose?," Link spoke once again, reaching a careful hand out to be lain against Groose's shoulder, and the blonde boy gave him a soft shake.

"You never say anything about it, Link.. but..," finally, Groose's voice echoed out to fill the silence. Link slowly drew his hand back at the sound, not at all relieved, because.. though he was clearly awake, and speaking, the taller male didn't move from his hunched position and his voice was devoid of his typical cheer, now sounding deepened and toneless, and so utterly uncharacteristic.

"You secretly laugh at me inside your head, don't you? Secretly, you're so proud that you could be the one chosen by the goddess, and that you could be the one to save Zelda, while I proved to be worthless..," in a movement that was so slow that it scarcely was noticable until Groose stopped, the red-haired male slowly lifted his head to glance backward, over his shoulder. His yellow eyes gazed, blurred and lacking luster, and Groose's very skin seemed as if it had sunken to an unhealthy, ashen tone.

"Isn't that true?," he asked, "You must feel so beside yourself, seeing me punished for being such a _dick_ to you. It must be so great to see that people only think of me as a helpless onlooker who could only watch as you stood in the spotlight and you handled everything.."

"No, Groose," Link finally piped up, his voice calm, but assertive. The sound of it seemed to draw a hardened glare from the slouched male, but Link ignored it.

"Liar," Groose breathed lowly.

"I'm telling the truth," the blonde teen insisted, "I wish I could have relinquished my responsibility to _anybody_ else. I wasn't ready for all the things I was forced to do, or the weight of the situation, and.. I don't even hope for praise now that it's over, I just want to leave it in the past. And, as well, you can't discredit yourself just because you weren't in my position, doing what I had to. You helped, when nobody else could do anything. You aided me, when I thought I was all alone, and I'm grateful to you.."

Link fell silent, taking a deep breath after his drawn out verbiage. He knew that Groose was only acting in this manner because of the sword's aura, but regardless, these were his true feelings, ones he just opted not to speak, normally. Even so, Link managed to smile softly, and nod to his friend. "You should already know this, Groose."

The young hero waited, poised and wary as Groose remained unmoving and quiet. He hoped that his words got through to the other male, not wanting to end up in a pointless struggle against a friend because of Ghirahim's malicious blade.

Finally, Groose heaved a dismal-sounding sigh and came to stand, turning to face the shorter male. He shook his head to Link, seeming to deny what he had been told. "You're just being righteous," he intoned, "Nobody can be so humble after accomplishing so much."

Link wanted to take a few steps back, but he dared not shy away. He kept himself calm and focused, and lifted his steeled gaze to meet Groose's own. "Groose, I'm here to relieve you of guard duty," the blonde teen explained, seeing that reasoning wasn't getting him very far. The most he could do was get Groose away from the sword. "..You can go back to Skyloft for tonight. Thank you for your help."

Again, there was a tense pause; Groose looked down upon Link, his glazed eyes holding barely a spark of consideration. It was frightening, and Link surely swallowed nervously as he refused to break eye contact, forcing himself to look into his friend's weakened gaze, overtaken by the darkness that lingered inside his heart.

Eventually, Groose himself broke the tense lock between their stares, and he shook his head, mumbling to himself as he finally chose to walk away. It left the shorter male holding his breath until the moment that Groose disappeared out the door and then heaving a sigh of relief.

When Link was left alone in the still of the temple, surrounded by the growing darkness of oncoming night, he turned his eyes to look forward, resting his sapphire stare on the sword and Ghirahim, both exactly where they had been placed this morning; he sauntered toward them, closing only the slightest gap of space, until he was directly before the dormant spirit.

"Almost," Link uttered, as if he were truly addressing Ghirahim through the unfeeling shroud of his remission. The blonde boy didn't know why he had chosen to do so; perhaps because he was actually just talking to himself, knowing that the spirit would never hear him. "It almost worked."

Maybe it was because Link felt that he should offer some form of condolence to his prisoner, to the one who was to be sentenced to death. Maybe it was just to help Link from feeling too unsettled, or just because he wanted to disallow himself to grow complacent and forget that Ghirahim was a living thing somewhere amidst the process. At the same time, Link wanted to steel himself against what he knew he had to do; he couldn't allow himself to forget the vile spirit's nature, he couldn't, he couldn't... such would end in disaster.

A careful hand stretched out, tentative fingers hovering near the spirit's exposed chest, coming to trace along the smooth surface of the dagger's hilt, the only visible part of the object, as the blade had remained sheathed inside the spirit's core all this time.

"Return to the sword," Link whispered. This wasn't a command by any means, it was just the teen's outward way of hoping that the spoken action was what happened, especially as his grip on the dagger tightened, and he sharply yanked it back, freeing it from where it had been encased.

Thankfully, as the steel of the blessed blade was brandished from inside the chest of the spirit, the spirit's body slowly faded, and snapped apart into dull, diamond-shaped fragments, which indeed were drawn into the blackened steel of the sword nearby, causing the massive weapon to glow momentarily, flickering with the slightest life, before Ghirahim's consciousness winked out inside, drained of any strength or will.

:: ::

The weight of Ghirahim's blade on Link's back was just as unforgivingly straining as the physical form of the spirit himself. The Hero had managed to tightly strap the enormous and burdensome object to himself where he normally carried his swords, but it was no less awkward, especially considering the Hero's diminished energy. (Link's Loftwing was just as unamused. The bird had flailed and squawked in complaint, leaving the teen unsure whether his mount was overly burdened by the weight on his back, or if maybe.. the crimson avian had his sensitive animal instincts roughly tousled by the dark aura of the blade his master was carrying.)

The trip here might have been an unsteady one, and the landing was uncomfortably heavy, even with the sailcloth, but Link had made it.. his final destination for the night, Skyloft.

This made the teen just as edgy as he had been in leaving the blade with Groose and Zelda; Link intentionally found himself taking a longer path in the direction of the bazaar, if only for the purpose of avoiding everybody. The previous situation with Groose had been more than enough to provoke an intense feeling of anxiety in letting the blade come too near any potential hosts, and Skyloft was filled with people that Ghirahim's blade could likely latch onto with ease.

Link swallowed to lessen the burn in his dry throat, inclining his upper body slightly to shift the tug of weight from his shoulders to the middle of his back; he remained in this position until he finally reached the immense and elaborately patchy construction of the bazaar, then straightened, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention. He hesitated just outside, but took a deep breath, and pushed himself onward, hoping beyond all hope that there were as few people here as possible.

As Link proceeded, greeted by all the wondrous sights and sounds of the marketplace of his home, he kept his pace even, but a bit more hurried than usual. He should have been comforted by the welcoming familiarity of home, but today the affection in which he regarded Skyloft with was his greatest enemy. Link was at his most vulnerable, feeling as though Ghirahim's blade was shivering at the deliciousness of all the opportunity that had been presented.

Whereas normally Link comfortably browsed about, now he kept his head down, his eyes focused on the floor, not wanting to meet any gazes or risk being summoned by any person who he hadn't come to speak with. He knew his way around well enough to navigate without looking up, and he followed a set path, watching the ground before his boots until he could hear the sound of clanging steel, hammering, and the crackle of dying embers inside the belly of a kiln.

The Hero came to a halt before the intended countertop, lifting his gaze to find Gondo tinkering away with one of his numerous projects, completely unaware that anybody had approached; it only took him a few moments to recognize the familiar shade of green that was hovering just at the edge of his vision, and he raised his masked face to notice Link waiting.

"Oh, heyy!," he called out, raising his deep voice in a delighted greeting, "It's Link!"

The teen forced a smile and nodded, trying to act as naturally as he could. He couldn't exactly _just tell_ everybody in Skyloft that he was carrying an evil sword and expect them to want to help him with it, so he already knew that he'd have to be discreet. Link aimed to disturb the peace as little as possible.

"Well," the gray-skinned Skyloftian positioned himself directly behind the counter in order to give Link his full attention. As friendly as ever, he smiled as he spoke, "What can I do for you?"

Keeping calm, but serious, the blonde teen began explaining what he had come to request, "I have a kind of large and very important job for you."

"Ohhh?," Gondo hummed, rubbing his knuckle against his chin in contemplation, the tone of his voice at first sounding intimidated, though he almost instantly smiled at the prospect of a 'challenging job', "Really?," he inquired, a subtle sort of excitement making itself apparent.

Again, Link nodded, a gentle smile clinging to his lips; he began to unbind the supplies from his back, glad to remove some of the weight. The wood Link had cut earlier that day was presented first, which the blonde male slid onto the counter. The bundle was immediate inspected with interest, since it was different in every way from anything that grew here; texture, grain, color, smell, everything. Gondo was the sort to be interested in these minor details.

"I need a small chest and a new sheath fashioned from this wood," Link explained, "The sheath must be made to fit a particular sword, but the sword also has to be cut so that it is straight enough to be sheathed. The chest is meant to contain the pieces cut away from the blade."

"What a complicated mess!," Gondo exclaimed, though he was yet to seem deterred. It wasn't his favored sort of work, but he thought he could manage. Then, he raised his gaze just enough to notice a rather large sword hanging on Link's back, not at all hidden though it was behind the blonde male. "Whoa!," he gasped, "..is the sword you mentioned that monstrous thing on your back?"

Link laughed nervously, but nodded his head, "That's right. As you can see, it isn't anything I could ever hope to use. I can't even stand carrying it around."

"No kidding!," the older Skyloftian laughed light-heartedly, though he was still leaning to the side, trying to get a better look at the oversized hunk of steel. "It's gonna be a pain to work with, I can tell. It's interesting though.. maybe you should just turn it into a decoration?," he chuckled.

(Link was _really_ glad Ghirahim couldn't hear that comment.) Again, the teen chuckled along with Gondo, not wanting it to be obvious how troubled he truly was. His voice quietly piped up, "Well..," he shrugged as he spoke, "It doesn't really belong to me. That's why I wanted to get it taken care of today."

"Today?," Gondo responded, sparing hardly even a second after Link finished his own sentence; he must have been truly overwhelmed. The older male shook his head, but maintained a friendly tone- he wouldn't dream of turning Link down for anything, if he _could_ accomplish it. "You're kidding with me, right?," he asked, though he was sure Link hadn't been kidding. "It's already so late in the day. I think it would be best if you waited until tomorrow."

The younger male sighed to himself, and lowered his gaze- He didn't want to keep the sword in Skyloft any longer than necessary, but he also didn't favor the notion of going back down to the surface. It might have been too late for him to be flying already, and as well, Link knew his bird was not going to appreciate having to carry the sword around twice more. The blonde boy found himself contemplating seclusion for the night, just himself with the sword and trying to keep it as far from others all possible.. but if it was anything like what the water dragon had said, the blade would be utterly desperate to revive its spirit, and with so many people and creatures it could manipulate, something was sure to go wrong.

"Okay, okay..," the sound of Gondo speaking suddenly perked Link up; the younger Skyloftian had been so lost in thought, he kind of left Gondo hanging. Link raised his eyes to see the darker-skinned male waving his hand in a gesture of surrender. "I can start on it today, then take everything home and continue working there, that way, I can have it back to you in the morning. How is that?"

This.. This was terrible.

Gondo, being the friendly guy he was, just couldn't let one of his best customers down, especially when Link looked so disappointed. He knew that Link carried out very important tasks, and that this was probably no exception, so.. he didn't mind doing a favor for him.

But this actually stuck Link in a very awkward position. The idea of somebody else taking home Ghirahim's sword? Terrible, dreadful, horrible; actually, none of those words properly described this plan at all. This was the last thing Link should allow to happen, but he also had to keep Gondo from knowing the truth about the sword. Politely, Link shook his head, insisting that this would be asking far too much.

And, of course, Gondo refused to be turned down- He was set on helping the young knight now, and nothing could deter him.

Thinking as quickly as he could, the younger male searched his mind for any possible excuse, even as Gondo gathered up the wood from the counter and placed it elsewhere, _already_ preparing to begin work; there was absolutely nothing Link could say short of, 'this sword could kill you and other people,' or at least nothing that could change the tinkering blacksmith's mind.

With nothing else to do, the young knight relented. He allowed the weight of Ghirahim's blade to slide from his back, and he watched his own movements with dread as it was placed into the hands of another; it was so surreal, he felt as though he were watching himself from behind a pane of glass, screaming at himself not to do what he was doing, but he did it anyway.

One night. That was all it would be. That would be alright, and everything would be fine, right?

Link gathered himself, and his own scattered thoughts, finally getting his mind on track, and he concentrated, planning around this inconvenient turn of events. All he could do was go with it, but it wasn't as bad as it seemed. The blade couldn't do any harm in the hands of one other person if Link made sure to keep his eye on Gondo. If anything went wrong, he would be there, and he would set things right.

As Gondo made one final promise to finish this work up as quickly as possible, Link made his own promise; no, it wasn't a promise, it was something much more firm than that. He swore. He swore himself to duty, to protect his home and the people who lived here. He would not let this sword harm anybody, he swore that much.

Link nodded his head calmly, while inwardly he steeled his resolve, readying himself for another sleepless night. He would watch Gondo's house from outside throughout the night. He would be vigilant, hour after hour, and nothing bad would happen.

He swore no bad would happen.

He swore.

::

_..to be continued.._

::

'Psst!,' the young hero peeked his head around the corner, noting that Gondo was hard at work, and wouldn't likely notice him. He had to make sure that the blacksmith remained unaware of the danger he was in, while at the same time, Link had to protect him discreetly. This was why he now sought the attention of the robotic creature hovering about behind the counter.

'Psst,' Link called in a whisper, "Hey, Scrapper!"

The insanely suspicious beckoning did manage to capture the robotic lifeform's attention, and he turned to see the familiar blonde male peeking from around a corner, and batting a gloved hand to summon him over; Scrapper shot Link a glare, but was obliged to follow after him.

When the hovering creature rounded the corner to find Link ducking in secret, he hardened his glare, and crossed his large hands over his metallic chest. "Oh, if it isn't Master Shortpants," he enunciated in his mechanical voice, "What do you want, bzzt?"

The green-clad Skyloftian bit his lip nervously, not really in the perfect mood to deal with the robotic creature's attitude. The situation was dire, and extremely serious, and Link needed Scrapper's help. Keeping his voice low, he carefully explained himself to the hovering lifeform, trying not to make Scrapper -_completely_- aware of the danger Gondo and all of Skyloft was in. "Scrapper. I really need you to keep an eye on Gondo tonight. Make sure he doesn't do anything strange, okay?"

"Ohhhh, bzzt?," Scrapper produced a reaction in his mechanical tone, his voice as close to sarcasm as it was possible for a robot to sound. "Master Shortpants want me to spy, bzzt? Well, forget it!," the robot raised his volume, flailing his hands in frustration. Link attempted to quiet Scrapper's moody outburst, but the creature did not relent.

"You abandoned Mistress Fi!," Scrapper pointed an accusing finger at Link. "She's sad and all alone, and you don't even care!"

Link was still waving his hands and shaking his head, denying the accusation and attempting to calm the robot. "I didn't abandon Fi!," he reasoned, "She's in the Temple of Hylia, resting for eternity."

And as hard as Link tried to calm the robot's outbursts, Scrapper only grew more beside himself at Link's words. A loud, high-pitched cry was produced from the floating creature as he shook his head wildly, covering his face with his hands. "Mistress Fi is dead, bzzt!," he began to wail.

"No, no!," Link hissed, frustrated, but trying to stay calm, even though Scrapper clearly misunderstood, "She's resting within her blade, keeping an evil entity locked inside."

"Noooo, bzzt!," again, the robot let out a wail, flailing about in the air even more wildly than before, "Mistress Fi is locked up with a mean, evil person, bzzt!"

Here, Link simply gave up in trying to explain. He didn't know what he could do or say to console the robot, especially when Scrapper never liked him from the start. Heaving a sigh of utter vexation, Link let his head fall forward, so that his face was captured in his palms. The Hero was fully prepared to let himself remain hidden in the comforting darkness behind his hands until he calmed enough to carry himself out of the Bazaar with some sense of composure, but a purred voice and the warm humidity of breath ghosting over one pointed ear stirred him from his attempt at self-containment.

"Oh Skychild, are you having some trouble?"

In a panicked jolt of movement, Link jumped away from the sudden presence that was far too close to him. He immediately turned to regard the one who had disturbed him and invaded his space, only to find the very creature he had sealed away standing there, looking at ease and completely unconcerned.

"Ghirahim?," Link hissed in confusion, "I though you were drained and sealed inside your-," before Link could even finish his thought, another perplexing observation came to leave his mind in chaos. He stared at Ghirahim, who simply stared back with a calm smile on his lips, and Link finally acknowledged that the sword spirit was standing in his bare, exposed, darkened skin, which was marked with intricate diamond-designs, and white banding.

This was not a very good sign, surely.

"How did you get like that?," Link half-questioned, and half-whined. This day couldn't get any more aggravating or bizarre.

Ghirahim simply raised his shoulders in a delicate shrug, turning his head to the side as a cheshire grin spread over his countenance, flashing the very tips of his elongated, ivory canines. Then, in a tone that was playfully amused, as well as dreadfully mocking, the spirit answered the teen's question, "Your countless failures left me feeling exceedingly energetic."

The harsh sound that was a mechanical voicebox simulating a highly surprised grasp suddenly rang above all else, interrupting any further conversation between Link and Ghirahim, and they both turned to look at the creature who had caused the noise.

Scrapper was still hovering closely, though now his hands seemed to be wringing in what was either nervousness or excitement (or both), and his eyes were plastered on the image of Ghirahim, observing him very carefully from top to bottom, in awe. Then, he floated over even closer, still gazing at the sword spirit, though Scrapper addressed Link first, "Who.. is.. this beautiful creature, bzzt?"

"His name is Ghirahim- Wait," Link began grumbling, but interrupted himself, confused yet again. "I, um.. I thought you liked girls?," he posed curiously, giving Scrapper a confounded look.

"Master Shortpants, bzzt," Scrapper seemed to groan, his gears grinding in his own frustration as he explained what he thought should have been obvious, "My race lacks assignment of gender as other mortal races, so I have no preference, bzzt. I simply know a being of stunning perfection when I see one, bzzt!"

Scrapper floated ever nearer to Ghirahim. "Master Ghirahim," his mechanical voice hummed in admiration, "You are a creature without flaw, bzzt."

"Ohh?," the sword spirit gestured to himself, as if he simply hadn't expected such a reaction. He recovered from that in mere seconds, choosing to next bat his hand, flustered, and he prissed as he softly giggled to himself, "..well, you are rather delightful yourself," he purred.

Link was busily crossing his arms, completely unamused, and trying extremely hard to ignore what was occurring.; he hoped this didn't go any further. He hoped, but he also didn't expect for anything to go his way. It never did, after all.

The robotic creature had never gotten much of a reaction from Fi, so now that he found an admirable creature willing to acknowledge his compliments, his circuits felt as if they might short from the overflow of electricity surging through him; he rather liked the feeling of being noticed, however. "I could gape in sheer awe of your radiance for an eternity, bzzt!," he further praised Ghirahim.

Again, Ghirahim laughed softly to himself, lifting his hand to lay over his lips in order to restrain his flustered giggles. He obviously wasn't too bashful to accept that blatant ego-stroking, though, because he slowly had begun to hold himself in a more proud posture, as if he were flaunting himself for all to see. "Oh my," he purred, "..if you go on, you're going to have me beside myself in gleeful giggling," Ghirahim paused, seeming as though he were indeed trying to keep himself restrained and composed, yet he broke under his immense desire for admiration and batted his hand at the robot, "Oh, just go on, go on.."

"Master Ghirahim, bzzt!," it seemed that Scrapper, as well, was completely beside himself, and he threw his body down with a heavy clank before Ghirahim's feet, and began to.. well, what appeared to be groveling in worship.

"Hmm, Master, ne?," Ghirahim lifted his hand just enough so that he could rest his chin in his palm, while his head tilted to one side, thoughtfully. He was silent for a few moments, his luminous white eyes blinking as he pondered. When he, at last, came to the conclusion he had been reaching for, he spoke up again. (Though Scrapper was still busy worshiping him, now kissing his feet, or something that resembled that.) "I think I do prefer being the Master for a change, and.. well.. I could use a robot follower giving me the compliments I rightly deserve."

With a metallic clank, Ghirahim clapped his hands together in finality, having made up his mind. Then, after, he addressed the creature at his feet. "Alright! Come along my delightful, robotic minion. I think I'm going to look around the Skychild's home for a bit, and see what mischief I can cause."

"Yes Master Ghirahim!," the robot exclaimed, hovering into the air, and following after Ghirahim as the sword spirit walked away, swishing his hips like a runway model, and proudly smirking as random passers-by gaped at what they perceived as nudity.

Link sunk himself into a very dark corner of despair and decided at that moment that sulking was a perfectly healthy hobby.

::

_[Now RUN before GhiraScrapper becomes canon. RUN.]_

::


	6. Chapter 6

For all of you who like to derp GhiraLink, and would like a more social area to enjoy the pairing, I created a facebook group dedicated to GhiraLink. Please feel free to join, comment, post pictures, your fanfictions, discuss the pairing, WHATEVER.

It would be found at [facebook dot com slash GhiraLink]

facebook . com / ghiraLink

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><p>::<p>

[Hello, dearest readers,

I must apologize, because this note is not one of my usual humourous ones. This one is meant to address a few things that I wanted to share with everyone;

1) I'm thinking that I should be in a celebretory mood, because this story has officially surpassed '100 pages' in my saved file of it, as well as being beyond 50,000 words, which is considered the mark that makes a story a _novel_. This story is only just beginning, yet it is already a novel. How astounding. But as much as I want to burst into tears of accomplishment, I've begun to wonder if the overly precise method of explaining my plot has gotten boring for you all? Are you guys tired of the ramble? Is there something you all would prefer to happen? Tell me these things, I beseech you. That brings me to me next point..

2) I don't want to put you all off, so please don't think I'm bitching or trying to be rude in any way. I'm ecstatic that you all love the funny short-stories so very much, because this has honestly been my first attempt at adding humor to counter-act my dark, philosophical, borderline-morbid way of storytelling.. But could you guys please, please, please give me some indication in your reviews that you read the STORY and not JUST the funny parts? The story was meant to be the true body of this work, and it is what I've put the greatest labor into.. So, please, tell me what you think of THAT also. Love it, hate it, things you would like to see, things that could improve, anything.. I won't be offended. Yes, tell me how I made you laugh, but as well, please tell me what you think of the story also. =)

3) Keeping pace with this story has become pretty stressful, even with me having a pretty extensive amount of free time. The stress is wearing on me, and I don't feel as vividly expressive when I'm rushing to meet a deadline. So sorry, guys, really. I can't take the pressure, what a wuss I must be, haha! So.. There may not be an update next week. I'll be working on my story, yes, but I'm not going to push myself to have it done 'on time'.

Admittedly, though.. I'm getting closer to the parts of the story that I really WANT to share with you all. Let's all hope that I can express these parts perfectly. So.. are we all looking forward to some real interaction between Link and Ghira? I am.. Oh yes, I am. *Evil smirk*]

:: ::

::

/..Minkin was a strong man, a good soldier. He stood at a fearful height, his chest and shoulders broad, his arms powerful and muscular. Still, even he had difficulty lifting the blade that had been left to him. The first time he lifted it was to wrap the wretched thing and strap it to his back; he set out to discard it early one morning, not wanting to be forced to stare at the weapon that took his younger brother's life.

Minkin traveled to a gorge, a pit that was said to be bottomless, knowing that no creature could hope to escape if they ever were to fall in. Some even believed that this pit was one of the original openings from which the creatures of darkness emerged, and that because the hole poured down to the realm of shadow, that this was only appropriate. 'The sword is evil,' Minkin's brother had said.

Minkin believed that. He wanted to return the blade to the place where it was created.

However, before he could relieve himself of the blade's troublesome weight upon his back, something else occurred to Minkin. He found himself thinking in a way he never had before; it was so unlike him that he was sure that the voice in his mind had changed and was no longer quite his own.

He couldn't fault the weapon that killed his brother. He could only fault the one who had wielded it that terrible night. He had no idea why whatever malicious being that owned the dark blade had left the weapon behind, but Minkin thought to himself, 'How sweet it would be to kill that creature with his own sword.'

With a darkly amused chuckle, Minkin headed back to his village, the sword remaining in his possession.

When Minkin returned, before he could reach his home, his path was blocked by a tiny, frail creature. He turned his gaze downward, looking upon the image of a filthy orphan, one who lingered within the village walls, unable to go anywhere else, though she barely survived on scraps she scrounged, and she was attacked violently on a near-daily basis. She was the child of a soldier that had fled battle, a dishonorable coward; her mother had died when she was born, and her father was captured after his act of cowardice, and executed. Out of resentment toward her dead father, many villagers still took out their hatred on her.

Minkin was one of the few who realized that the child's father had fled battle, if only to survive, out of a greater responsibility to protect her. Minkin pitied this child, and that was probably why she had approached him so openly, and now stood before him, looking at him with those pleading eyes, begging for any help he could offer, no matter how minute.

Minkin made sure that nobody was around, then he offered the child what few rupies he had been carrying. She was disgustingly narrow, so much so that it would have been easy to break her bones with probably the slightest strike against her skin.

Minkin said nothing to the girl, nor did she say anything in return. However, he noticed as he finally made it to his door, when he turned back to peer in her direction, that the girl had yet to move. She stood, staring, her expression painted with confusion, as if she were listening to an imaginary voice whispering to her and couldn't quite understand what was being said, or why, or where it had come from..

Minkin thought little of it. The child was delirious in hunger../

:: ::

The silvery, vibrating whistle of chirping crickets was the constant white noise of night; it came consistently, rhythmically, like a ticking clock or the beat of a living heart. It was soothing as it sang through the silence, blotting out the deafening ring of soundlessness with its constant chirp-chirp-chirp. It was the very ring that symbolized peace, even in the darkness.

Link's head fell back against the stone that he had already pushed his shoulders into, his neck inclining in a soft curve, the boy's blonde hair slowly creeping down his forehead, into his eyes, tickling against the flutter of his lashes as he breathed the cool air of night. For a while, he watched the stars much further beyond his home, surely reflecting the flickering silver of their light in the deep blue of his eyes, creating mirrors of the distant galaxies above.

The boy's guard never wavered as he dreamed with his eyes open; he was still listening to the night's pulse of cricket chirps, the occasional fluttering wings of Keese, out on their nightly feed, and soft paw-patters of a wandering Remlit. (Most of these small, feral creatures chose to regard Link with glowing eyes in passing him by, hissing and arching their tiny backs as they prickled their fur and fluffed their tails; Link didn't move when this happened, calmly maintaining eye-contact with the small creatures, and swatting his practice blade against the ground to threaten them into running.)

Aside from all these passing sounds and bumps in the night, there were other sounds that remained as constant as the crickets; the clanging of a hammer, the grating sound of scraping, sanding, short periods of quiet, then the screeching of cutting. All of these sounds acted as perfect reassurances to Link; these were the sounds of Gondo tirelessly working inside his home. Working, and nothing more.

Raising himself from his hide-away, Link crawled to his knees and turned toward the outcropping of stone that protruded up from the grassy area of earth. The teen let his hands delicately grasp the cracked crest of the stone, and he raised himself up to look over it, toward Gondo's house, which he was right outside of, a short distance away.

From the windows, through the old, thin material that covered the glass panes, the even tone of the lanterns inside flickered calmly. The blonde teen could see the dull, wiggling light of the fire dancing, and it remained uniform and peaceful, instead of fluctuating with aggravation, as all tiny flames did when the atmosphere of the room was disturbed by violent movement. Link sighed calmly, aware that the night was far from over, yet the earliest hours of morning had already come upon him. Soon the eastern sky would blush from blue to subtle violet, then pink, until it lightened completely, and the loftwings all took to the sky to greet the sun, as they did ritualistically.

That thought filled Link with peace; he could recall a time when he was much younger, back before he started speaking to people, when Zelda had snuck into the quiet emptiness of his tiny house to rouse him from sleeping. Link softly smiled to himself, recalling that his friend had come onto his bed and shaken him, and that he resisted her until she finally rolled him right off the mattress onto the floor. That morning was cold, and the air smelled wet. The two kids could see their breath collect before their faces in thick, foggy clouds, and all the windows in Skyloft were still darkened, though the sky had begun to turn from midnight bluish-black to soft oceanic blue. The icy air twinkled as the sun reflected itself from beneath the horizon.

Zelda tugged Link along by his hand, leading him uphill to the Knight academy. Link's sandals were wet with frosty-dew, and bits of grass were clinging to his toes as they became numb from cold, but at such a young age, children tended to ignore these kinds of things. Link wondered if Zelda's father knew she was already awake, or that she was out and about. The boy was aware that parents tended to watch closely after their children; Link was envious at times and contented at others, despite his loneliness. Zelda and Gaepora filled the void, so he was satisfied.

The blonde girl urged her friend up a ladder, and they clambered somewhat clumsily up onto the roof of the Knight Academy. And there, on a safely flat and steady area of the rooftop, sat a pile of blankets, and a thermos of hot tea. Link hadn't known until that moment that his friend had been planning this for a few days, and he gladly kicked his sandals from his wet feet as he and Zelda wrapped themselves in the blankets, and shared the (overly-sweetened) tea, cupping the containers that held the beverage between their hands.

The two children waited quiet and content together, until the first drop of golden sun could be seen from beneath the clouds. As the vivid glowing orb raised itself into the sky, Link and Zelda watched, in awe, while all the Loftwings flew from their overnight roosts, and flitted into a whirling spiral around the hovering island, happily welcoming the day with coos and cries of joy as they all stretched their majestic wings.

It was an indescribable splendor that most Skyloftians either missed or simply ignored, since it occurred with each new day, every morning. It was a sign that everyone here on this island had begun to regard the simple act of waking up as if it were merely a given, as if _life itself_ were a given, something to be taken for granted.

The only two people in all of Skyloft who were different, who could clearly see the spectacle of life and of the world, and of all things in harmony, were two young children who sat side-by-side, bundled up as they welcomed the morning; they were the only ones who seized the day, as if they were perfectly aware of how quickly life could be snuffed out.

In his contemplation, in dreaming with his eyes open, Link came to settle himself again in the grass, his shoulders rested against the stone at his back, his neck exposed as he let his head fall back. The teen reflected on this most cherished memory, dreaming with his eyes open for hours, so absorbed in the peaceful seclusion of his innermost thoughts that he didn't even realize when his eyes finally shut.

:: ::

"What are you doing?," was the first echo of distorted noise to usher in the morning. The disturbance of the words made the shine of the sun, the warm caress of her light, apparent from beneath a state of complete relaxation.

'Nnnn..,' the youth hummed in his sleep, tightening his lids, and wriggling his body in an attempt to escape the vivid golden light pouring over his face, and shimmering upon the mess of blonde hair falling around his face.

"Hellooo," the disembodied voice called out with stern determination, "Link?"

The teen who had bundled his limbs inward for warmth, like a infant in its fetal stages, didn't even stir.

"Ugg," came a groan of annoyance that was softened with amusement just beneath, then in a tired but pleasant voice, the person looking over Link remarked now, to himself, "It really is true what they say about how you sleep."

"Link!," the voice retracted from its placidity, becoming firm all over again, raising in volume if only to raise up the sleeping youth. This was partnered with the nudge of a boot against Link's rump and his thighs, gentle enough not to hurt, but firm enough to jar his entire frame. "Wake up!," the voice called insistently.

Consciousness was a fickle thing with Link; it came and went just as easily. He could be on the brink of waking, open his eyes, decide not to move, and settle back into slumber with the greatest comfort and ease. And how funny; nobody ever knew what was going on for a few seconds after first waking. For all any person withdrawing from dreamland knew, they were living their lives as it had been years ago, pasts lives, the lives of another person altogether, or even clinging to the dream they had just been immersed in moments ago. It was doubly so for Link- He was expecting his mattress, the old one from when he was young, when he lived in the home of his spirited-away parents, and he was expecting to hear Zelda scolding him, and giving his ear a tug. Link expected this so honestly that his hand lifted to shield his pointed ear before it could occur.

This was before Link felt the unusual texture of the surface his cheek was rested against, and he shifted for comfort, finding that there were bits of grass stuck to his skin, and that his cheek had been embossed with the uneven patterning of the green carpet that had been crushed beneath his face. Link opened his eyes, lifting his head just a fraction to rub at his face. He felt the earth beneath him, smelled its fragrance embracing his prone form, and then he saw the endless green of the ground stretching out before him, bordered by dusty roads, and the tapping boot of a person standing over him.

And then, finally, Link shot up; he jumped from his comfortably content position in confusion, first and foremost. Why was he outside again? There was a reason, he knew there was..

"Link, you definitely shouldn't sleep outside," the voice rattled in a lecturing tone, sounding more as if it were trying to communicate straight facts than reflecting any real show of concern; while the ring of this person's speaking captured the waking hero's attention, he was so aghast at suddenly waking to a feeling of dread, needing to recall something of vast importance, he had scarcely acknowledged the yellow-clad figure that belonged to the voice.

"...and that's why not even you can afford to lower your defenses," Pipit finished speaking, his words having drifted completely beyond Link's ability to be attentive. The teen tuned into the sound of his upperclassmen's voice only in enough time to hear the finish of his sentence, of which Link held little interest as he suddenly recalled why he was even here.

In an instant, Link had scrambled to his feet, and spun round so quickly on heel that he moved a bit off kilter, stumbling to the side, though his feet traced along the ground with just enough grace to keep him from falling right back down.

Brimming with trepidation at the expected danger, Link's widened blue gaze was laid upon the image of Gondo's house, which looked just the same as ever, offering no indication of any foul play, though looks could be deceiving, as Link was well aware.

The panicked hero's hands clutched at his chest, his heart going from resting to racing so quickly that it felt it could explode, and Link could feel his pulse pounding in his throat, like an immense lump that he couldn't quite swallow down.

'I fell asleep!,' he cursed himself in his mind, the necessary reactions to this dilemma not yet piecing together in his brain; instead, his innermost thoughts consisted of questioning, such as, 'What do I do? What am I going to do? What should I do? What now? What if something happened?' Calmly answering his own questions proved to be a difficult matter through the loud chatter of 'Oh no..oh no..oh no,' keeping him from doing so.

"Link?" Pipit asked, finally cluing in to there being something genuinely wrong now, "What's wrong?" he asked in a concerned but steady tone, as if he intended to involve himself in the resolution. (Even though he had been working all night and was actually on his way to bed when he found Link.)

Link turned his head round in a snap. "Did Gondo leave his house yet? Did you see?"

"Hm?," the older male, despite Link's obvious anxiousness, could not withhold a tired yawn that momentarily interrupted his ability to answer, though he easily spoke up immediately after. "Yeah, Gondo already headed down to the bazaar.. It seemed he was in a hurry this morning. He wasn't the only one in a hurry this morning, either.. Zelda, Groose, and a few others mounted at the first sign of light and headed for the surface-.."

"Sorry," Link interrupted, "I really have to go."

Excusing himself in a dutiful rush, Link bolted off in the direction of the bazaar, praying that all was well against the terrible thorny feeling tightening around him. He did all he could to shake the most horrible thoughts from his mind, not wanting to consider the most dreadful possibilities, just wanting to focus on covering ground as quickly as possible.

The calm, undisturbed atmosphere that was typical of a normal day in Skyloft was the only thing that had Link clinging to hope. He hoped that the silence was that of his home's usual peace, and not the still of an unexpected massacre.

::

_[How many people yawned when Pipit yawned? I did.]_

:: ::

There had been no time for fearful hesitation, standing in the shadow of massive patchwork tent of the bazaar. Somewhere along the way, while the teen let his legs carry him as quickly as he could, he had finished scolding himself for the poor grasp he'd had on his responsibilities, and he decided that he would face whatever situation had come about because of him.

Thus far, courage had been his only real unfaltering trait; it was the only thing that had gotten him through the difficulties that laid behind him. Now, he maintained that courage, focusing as he sharply brushed back the veil over the open doorway, and he strode forward, into the main marketplace of Skyloft. His steeled gaze was focused and determined, sharp blue eyes holding an intense, piercing expression as they slowly moved over the scene before them, taking in every detail.

Link did not falter, not even long enough to show his relief in finding everything exactly as it always was, exactly as it was meant to be; his heart might have been fluttering in the release of tension, but the Hero dared not simply believe all was well just yet. Link studied every booth from his statuesque stance just paces away from the entrance. Every person was plainly at ease, showing no sign that anything abnormal had occurred to make this day different from any other.

Then, Link let his eyes flicker in the direction of Gondo's work area. Finally moving from where he stood, stalking as cautiously silent as a creeping predator, the blonde boy slowly advanced, taking in every detail that was presented but finding it all to be as typical as ever. Even so, the young hero still held firmly to his wariness, coming to stand before the counter of Gondo's Scrap Shop, waiting until his presence seized the owner's attention.

The dark-skinned Skyloftian was already absorbed into another project, though his movements were lacking the usual vigor; sluggishly, he hammered away at something out of Link's line-of-sight, then he paused for a moment to stare at it, studying his work. He was reaching for another tool when he turned his head just enough to notice a customer waiting patiently at the counter. Gondo's hand froze in air as his masked face was angled toward Link, and he let his arm fall at his side as he turned toward the green-clad teen.

"Hey there, Link!," came the typical pleasant greeting, though the man's deep voice was not nearly as singsong; instead, he actually sounded rather tired. "Here for the items you requested and that sword, right?," Gondo asked as he smiled.

"Yes," the blonde male answered calmly. Link was still wary, but he kept it tucked beneath an apathetic appearance, disallowing it from showing on the surface. It was easy, for now, because Gondo seemed fine.

"Ah, good," the shop owner nodded with a pleasant smile, "I managed to finish it all up last night, so I think you're gonna be very happy." Gondo finished speaking, then immediately ducked beneath the counter to gather up the items Link had come to collect; he'd stuck them on the shelves, where everything had been waiting safely.

The sheathed blade was the first thing that was presented. Link closely, carefully surveyed as he laid eyes on the item in Gondo's hand, his sapphire gaze following the object until it was placed upon the flat surface before him, and the other man's fingers unfurled their grasp on it, and were removed; some part of him had been expecting the blade to bid that Gondo suddenly draw it and attack. A long breath was released slowly from the teen and he took the sheath in hand, feeling the weight of the sword sleeping inside its wooden confinement.

The sheath itself had been sanded smooth, and was coated in a murky-white finish to keep it from scratching or splintering. While the finish was of a pale coloration, the wood itself was of a very light gray hue, the rings of its grain a darker gray that had a warm, violet undertone. Link wouldn't have guessed how pristine the inner flesh of the wood was from the dark tone of the outer bark, yet the sheath almost resembled ivory or bone. Gondo even troubled himself with etching designs along the front of the scabbard; curling vines stained with a darker varnish drew the eye upward, over the wooden item, in a way that was aesthetically pleasing. This patterning was also the same that appeared on Ghirahim's blade, adorning the triforce crest, or so Link noticed.

Greatly comforted and alleviated of most of his worries at just having the blade back in his own possession, Link was confident enough to check upon the blade right here, just to make sure that it _was_ the _right sword_, and nothing was out of place about its appearance. With the sheath held in one hand, the fingers of the young hero's opposite hand tightened around the sword's hilt, and it was slowly, cautiously drawn out from its prison.

A dull, metallic ring sounded from the blade as it was drawn, the black and silver of its body shining in the light, and reflecting the colored orbs that dangled decoratively from the ceiling above, though in darkened, distorted tones. A faint yet unmistakable scent clung to the glossy steel, which Link noticed as he observed; the sword must have been pampered in a luxurious rub-down with oil of clove.

In amazement, Link softly uttered a, 'wow', feeling Ghirahim's blade now only a bit heavier than the master sword had been at its final stage. It shouldn't have been so surprising, as the sword's shape had also been cut very similar to Link's previous weapon. Narrowly, the blade was shaped to curve inward near the designs at the base, squaring a bit around the triforce crest, then again curving inward so the blade was narrow and long, straight to the pointed tip of the sword. It was no longer the abysmal-black behemoth of arching shadows and thorns. Now, it truly was a dark twin sibling to the master sword, undeniably magnificent.

The teen was left marveling at how sleek and refined the sword was now, how balanced and beautiful it was; he admired the sword so fervently, he almost thought to chastise himself in recalling that this weapon was possessed of pure evil. Despite himself, the Skyloftian teen felt a sharp tinge of regret as he reminded himself that this sword was bound for destruction.

"It's amazing," Link breathed these words, just barely loud enough to be audible over the bustle around him, and he sheathed the sword as Gondo chuckled in pride.

"You know," spoke the shop owner, his tone just as affectionate as Link's had been in regards to the sword, "my initial impression of that thing was that it was some big, showy hunk of cheap steel. But I found after working on it that the blade was incredibly resistant to heat, and it gave me quite a struggle in cutting it, you could say." Again, the older Skyloftian softly laughed to himself.

Link continued to listen attentively as he fastened the sheath to his back, directly alongside the other that already hung there.

"..Whoever created the blade must have put an immense amount of effort into it," Gondo explained his observations, after having worked with the sword, "the quality of the steel is superb, but the craftsmanship was just as astounding. Creating a sword is like...," he paused, in thought, then continued, "..I don't know, like having a child and raising it, too. It takes so much work and attention and patience; heating the steel until it folds like a sheet, then hammering it down as it cools, and doing this over and over with perfect attention to detail until it is very strong. It's so easy to screw up during any phase of the process, so I'm.. impressed beyond words." The older man shook his head, unable to express his proper respect, or even fully explain it. "A tremendous bit of effort went into that thing, that's all I'm trying to say.. I almost felt unworthy of altering it. If I hadn't already started cutting on it when I noticed the quality.. I might have been too intimidated."

"I know," Gondo shook his head, and batted his hand, "It's silly but I couldn't help but feel that way. I always show weapons and gadgets this strange affection but that sword just seemed to pull more out of me than anything else."

While Link smiled softly to Gondo's musings, expressing his personal amusement, he quietly kept his curiosity restrained; how very bizarre that Ghirahim's blade was able to heighten something that seemed perfectly harmless.. or maybe Gondo really did just admire the sword for what it was. Surely, the young hero would never know.

"I'm grateful for all of the effort you put into this," Link politely offered his thanks while the shop owner crouched to gather the rest of the order from beneath the counter. "I can't thank you enough."

"It's no problem," Gondo insisted as he brought out the miniature chest now, and placed it upon the countertop, sliding it to the edge for Link to take hold of, "like I said yesterday, I couldn't let one of my loyal customers be left unhappy! Plus, hey, I kind of enjoyed myself; honestly, I was rather fascinated by that sword," he paused before regarding the chest, "..anyway, here's the chest you asked for. I put the pieces cut from the sword into it already. 'Can't say I blame the owner of the sword for wanting to keep the scrap. I've never seen another metal quite like it. It has that polished, black shine on the outside, but beneath that it's such a pure, vibrantly silver color, almost white. Beautiful, really."

Link opened the box, really just idly doing so to study the craftsmanship as Gondo spoke. The blonde teen delved his fingers into the small, wooden container, smoothing his fingertips over the scraps cut from the sword, before he took one into his hand to observe it, noting its features as the shop owner described them; weight, color, texture.

Then, by utter happenstance, Link unconsciously began counting the severed pieces that laid within the wooden box, noticing that the collection consisted of an uneven number; this, in itself, wasn't alarming, but it sent Link's mind adrift with thoughts that branched out from this one minor detail. Ghirahim's blade had viciously arched outward, like some feral beast of shadow, but the sword had been symmetrical, which meant each piece should have had a corresponding counterpart, and an even number of scrap bits should have been in the box.

This was unusual, but Link still didn't wish to become alarmed just yet- Gondo seemed perfectly normal, so he couldn't have been effected by the blade's aura. There was no reason that Link couldn't simply...

As Link raised his gaze just slightly from the box to the flat surface of the shop counter, he came to look upon Gondo's hands, which rested here. This could have been a normal, every day occurrence, because the older, dark-skinned man did a lot of tinkering, but at this very moment, something was telling the blonde boy that he had just stumbled onto the final detail that indicated that something had gone awry; Gondo's palms were heavily bandaged.

"..What happened to your hands?," Link spoke quietly, his voice remaining steady, hiding the sudden wariness coming over him.

"Hm..?," The older man hummed, the vibration of his vocalization seeming to hold the pitch of genuine confusion, as if he honestly hadn't a clue what Link was even talking about. He glanced down and upturned his bandaged palms, revealing a faint crimson dotting along the underside. The man's expression was hidden behind his protective mask and so it remained unclear what he must have been thinking as he plastered an extended stare on the crisp wrapping that bound his appendages, yet the fact that he gazed down for so long was enough to assume that something was wrong. He really, _truly_ hadn't _known_ that his hands were cut, not until Link mentioned it.

The silence was broken by a half-chuckle, and Gondo raised his head from where his stare had been fixated. "Well, like I was saying...," Gondo began, "..the steel of that sword was pretty resilient, almost like it was trying to resist being cut. ..I guess the sword has a sense of pride, because it didn't appreciate me cutting on it, so it cut me back."

There was a pause, an interruption that came as Gondo stopped to consider something, laugh to himself, then he verbalized his innermost musing, "...a funny thing happened though. It was probably just me being tired late last night while I worked, but when I cut my hand the first time, I just ignored it and kept working. A bit of blood got on the blade, and even though I had cut it down blunt, when I touched it again, somehow it managed to cut me again, as if the blade had sharpened itself again! I know it sounds crazy, so don't take me too seriously. It was late, like I said, and I just get reckless sometimes.."

As Gondo spoke, Link felt no relief. The teen found himself thinking back to the previous evening, when he had confronted Groose, and how his friend was suddenly darkened in spirit and filled with hatred. Link remembered the clouded, lifeless look in Groose's eyes, and the drained way he spoke and held himself, as if the blade had not only sapped his strength, but the very spirit of his existence, little bit by little bit. The young Skyloftian reflected on that, reminded bitterly of the sword's dark powers. This weighed on top of the other unusual detail which Link had noticed; there was a missing piece of steel from the blade that wasn't in the box. Yet now there were even worse revelations to attend with.

_The sword had come into contact with blood._

Link didn't know how much blood it took for Ghirahim to revive. For all he knew, the spirit could have freed himself from the blade and was simply laying low while watching his enemy's every movement. Ghirahim could be watching now from the shadows, pursuing and stalking Link like prey, as though this was some sort of amusing game. Nervously, Link glanced over his shoulder at this notion, swallowing dryly.

The teen shook these thoughts from his head, needing to focus on the more significant details and issues. (Even so, his skin had broken into chills, the kind that tingled across one's flesh at the punchline of a ghost story. There was this inescapably edgy sensation that Link was having a difficult time ignoring.)

"..I see," the teen spoke up, "I'm sorry that happened."

"Nahh," Gondo reassured, batting his hand as if to say that he was perfectly fine, "it was my own fault. Don't worry about it."

Link nodded, again thanking Gondo for his help before he paid the man for his troubles, then excused himself, hurrying off.

Something was amiss and Link knew it, he could feel it. He had the very same creeping sensation, crawling just beneath his skin; it felt as if the spirit himself had come to drape himself over Link's shoulder and was taunting him in a soft, sinister whisper. Before the teen dared to set out for the volcanic region, he had to be certain that there wasn't something he was missing.

Link left the bazaar, and began off toward Gondo's home, in order to search for the one severed bit of steel that had vanished. The teen knew that if even one piece remained, Ghirahim's spirit would not be destroyed, and if he survived, he would surely bring about brutal, merciless bloodshed upon his revival.

The worst of it.. Now, Ghirahim was in Skyloft, the land that had been protected and shielded for eons by the goddess. If ever the spirit awakened, he would delight in this place's destruction, if only because it was the only place that had been safe from his wrath.. and now it had been placed squarely into his wretched, grasping hands.

:: ::

..to be continued..

::

_[Strike 1: Leave Ghirahim's sword with Gondo._  
><em>Strike 2: Fall asleep on the watch.<em>  
><em>Anybody think Link will go for a strike 3?] <em>

:: ::

Ghirahim's Q&A

Deadaleta writes,

_Ghirahim... Hmm... Uhhhh... Oh! If you suddenly turned good somehow, but were injured(as in guts spilling on the floor, heart torn out, nails ripped off, no limbs, etc), and didn't want to kill ANYONE... But you didn't want to keep being a limbless, gutless, pain filled human, would you go as far as to heal yourself with blood from some creepy lady's period?_

Ghirahim responds,

_As fascinating as this question is, I'm not so certain that I can give you quite the answer you're looking for. I won't say that I've never been placed into... a disagreeable physical circumstance, because the fact is that I have. (Not to this degree, of course, and I'll keep the more intimate details of the situation/s to myself.) However, if at any point my physical form is in a state of pain or injury that I simply cannot endure, I either choose to recede into my blade, or I am drawn into it based on how much strength I have left. Obviously, there really would be no choice, if I were to sustain the sort of injuries you've described. (Quite a delectable imagination you have..)_

_But, since I'm in a decent enough mood, I'll just pretend that the above information isn't a possibility and humor you with an attempt at rationally answering this question otherwise. In this story, my healing process is described in some detail. (How in-depth, I have no idea, so forgive me if I'm reiterating.) Blood is what I use to heal myself; blood contains iron, which is what I use to mend my wounds. You have to consider how much iron is contained in the blood, and how much blood is available. The chance of there being enough blood to heal an extensive injury from one (creepy) woman's period of menstruation is.. unlikely. I'd have to either wait for months for that one woman to produce enough, or I'd have to use the blood from numerous women. This all sounds a bit too foul for me.._

_So, if I had to remain in a humanoid form during the entire process, I hope for death. If I am able to simply return to the sword, and wait this thing out.. I can be very patient. And, well.. Blood is blood._

* * *

><p>Deadaleta writes,<p>

_Do you feel FABULOUS today? (please don't kill me, it had to be done)_

Ghirahim responds,

_Dear, fabulous is my homeostasis._

* * *

><p>Deadleta writes,<p>

_If you were a different sword, what sword would you be? Without choosing to be the Fierce Deity's sword or the gilded sword._

Ghirahim responds,

_Why ask me a question if you're going to limit me on what my answer can be? Why inquire, only to remove some of my more appealing options? Why?_

_..ahem. Anyway, I suppose I still have a few reasonable choices. I could be severely cliche, and opt to become Dark Link's sword, but that seems too obvious, and I'd rather not be so blasé. In any case, I think the most opportunity for amusement is in choosing to become the Kokiri sword. (Insert a 'size doesn't matter' joke here, though clearly bigger is better, at least for me. Yes, I 'm still referring to swords.) I'll admit, it is a charming little blade, and the lovely red diamond greatly resembles the one in my chest, but.. the real reason I'd make this choice would be for a chance to torment an even younger, more vulnerable version of the Sky Child. And of course, the eventual upgrade to the gilded sword, which you forbid me to select. (Shame on you for disallowing me that.) The gilded sword.. The lovely silver and white blade, with its diamond patterning, and its red and gold adornments.. How perfect it would be for me_.

* * *

><p>Deadleta writes,<p>

_Why does your hairstyle change when in your black metallic skinned form, and if you changed it, what would it be?_

Ghirahim responds,

_That's like asking me why my form changes at all. My structure is altered to better contain the higher level of power that I'm unleashing when I resume that form. I'm incapable of altering the way I appear in that form; it was the way I was created to appear, and though minor details may seem insubstantial, every element of my appearance functions merely to promote my stability. (Realistically.. It probably helps that it is out of my face. It saves me from having to casually flick it back from my eyes, which I often find myself doing while fighting in my lower form.)_

_Admittedly, though, I prefer my 'lower' form. I choose to remain in a weaker state sheerly out of vanity, if you must know. With that being said, I rather like the way my hair looks in this particular form, so it would be pleasing if I could keep it this way. (Until I get bored and decide to change it. When that day comes, I'll turn to magazines, or experiment on some hostages, just to see what I think I'd like.)_

* * *

><p>Deadaleta writes,<p>

_What does it feel like to be inside your sword?_

Ghirahim responds,

_That's difficult to explain, honestly. While it feels no different from how you feel when you're idly sitting about in your own skin, it is surely different in a vast amount of ways._

_When I've receded into the sword, it is almost as if the physical form of my spirit no longer exists; When I am within my blade, I am one with it and nothing else. I can still hear, and see everything going on around me, just as I would if I were in my humanoid form, and I can vividly feel physical contact and other sensations._

_However, since I'm obviously limited in how I can interact with my environment, my perception of various multitudes of stimuli changes, and there are far too numerous little tedious things to explain. I believe it has been noted within the story already that, because I am the spirit of a sword, whenever I enter into battle, if it is against an opponent I desire to fight, the sensations of the fight itself, to me, are comparable to intimacy. That is obviously the same when I've receded into my sword. (Except for when my blade makes contact with a blade that possesses light energy. In that case, fighting can become rather physically painful.)_

_It is probably best that you gather the rest of the details amidst reading the story, since I'll be playing a larger role when the sky child is finally booted from 'center stage'._

* * *

><p>[This next question is kind of a two in one, because two people asked a similar question.]<p>

Deadaleta writes,

_If you were trapped in a room with someone(so cliche but I couldn't help myself), who would it be? WITHOUT HARMING YOURSELF OR OTHERS. Link, Impa, Zelda, Groose, Fi, or a pissed off Demise who seriously wants to kill you after ripping your guts out from your flesh... and committing several other gross gory painful torture methods on you?_

Tapix writes;

_If you had to live with one for the rest of your existence, who would you choose, Link or Fi? (And no, you're not allowed to harm them. Or yourself. You have to DEAL WITH IT.)_

Ghirahim responds,

_Choosing somebody to spend an eternity with? Well, I'd hate to give out spoilers, but I think that this fic will begin to make that clear._

_If I were given options from which to choose from, and I were going to be stuck somewhere with somebody, I think you all should know who I would select. Clearly the most pleasant choice would be Sky Chi- I mean, Link. If Fi isn't there, then he would be decently unarmed, so... he'd be the only one feeling 'trapped' at the time._

_If I were stuck with Fi.. I know they say opposites attract, but they also say a lot of other foolish babble that makes absolutely no sense. For any two individuals to have any semblance of a pleasant relationship, there must be some common ground. With my counterpart and I being complete opposites, I can say with certainty that I'd find her quite intolerable. Then again, if you've ever asked her about me, she states that I have gentlemanly qualities. While she also says that this isn't my true nature, I'll still try to take this as a compliment._

_With Impa.. Honestly I don't know her well enough to make a judgement. However, from what I've seen so far, I can't say I'd find her as a decent partner in seclusion. She seems like the overly righteous type, which gets me absolutely seething. (Taking this into account, forbidding me to harm her would likely make little difference. When my temper gets the best of me, sometimes I can't even tell myself what to do.)_

_With Groose.. Well, you already know that the sight of his hair makes me feel physically ill. I suppose it wouldn't be considered harming him if my rapier just happened to slip, and only some unnecessary things were cut off. Beyond that, I'd have to find a balance between tolerating his personality enough to amuse myself; he seems like he would be easy enough to torment. (Which, by the way, doesn't have to consist of physical harm.)_

_Being stuck with Zelda.. Despite my loathing for Hylia, I actually think it would be easier to handle being stuck in her presence. At the very least, she would probably quietly leave me to my own devices. And, again, if I decided that I needed a bit of gaiety.. As easy as she had been to kidnap, I'm sure that she'd also be easy to toy with._

_And, lastly, being stuck with my master while he's in an unpleasantly temperamental mood.. Perhaps that's a better question for Fi. ;)_

::


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Hello readers. I do apologize for being behind schedule. Hopefully the length of this chapter will make up for it.

Also, I have created for The Fabulous Lord Ghirahim, his own facebook fanpage. He insists that his beloved fans like him. Seriously. As well, Ghirahim will be happy to take any of your questions there on his fanpage. Like him. He wants to talk to all of you. He'd love to, in fact.

www . facebook . com/ pages/ Ghirahim-means-srs-bsns/ 124660167665160

:: ::

::

/..It wasn't long before Minkin became known as a hero. He was the most steadfast defender of the village and an honorable soldier. Even while other mortal villages toppled one by one since the demonic invasion, Minkin's small, barrack town had become untouchable, and most villagers claimed that it was all thanks to his ceaseless determination and willpower.

But he wasn't the righteous hero that everybody thought him to be; he mused on this constantly as he sat alone in the dark confines of his home. Realistically, he'd simply become a man obsessed. On the inside, he was seething with fury and tormenting regret. He longed for nothing but the satisfaction of demonic blood and he could only be temporarily sated by mass slaughter.. Sometimes he began to wonder if all the killing was even meant as justice for his younger brother's death anymore. Was it revenge, or did he just love the rush?

'..there are others..'

Minkin sat upright on his cot at the sound of a voice. This had become a common occurrence, hearing a voice so unlike his own, but always within the private confines of his own tortured skull. This time, it was as if somebody stood nearby, whispering the deepest, darkest of secrets.

'..others that are to blame.'

The soldier looked around nervously, his brow furrowed as he peered fearlessly through the darkness of his home. He felt a chill beneath his skin and he was sure that he must have gone pale at the haunting sensation that had been stalking him about recently, especially now that it was only growing more and more powerful with each passing night.

Minkin stood and sauntered over to his front window, brushing the curtains back so he could study the emptiness of the late-night streets. He found, however, that the streets were not completely empty. Across the way, standing just outside the shade of a darkened alleyway, was the orphan girl, Rubie.

For one reason or another, she'd made it a habit to stand outside Minkin's house at night. He had ignored it for a while, but on this particular evening, he had reason to question it.

The soldier gathered up a discarded jacket from his floor and covered his bare torso with it before he opened the front door and faced the cool air of the most unholy hour just outside. Without hesitation, he strode across the bricked walkway, over to where the small girl was standing, and he looked down at her with an expression that was stern and fully serious. He asked only one question that night.

"Do you hear it, too?," he asked.

With big sad, untainted eyes, glassed in innocence and misery, Rubie looked up at Minkin, her gaunt countenance masked in apathy, though her eyes expressed her very soul. The girl's honesty was a thing Minkin found solidified by the look in the orphan's deep gaze, however she spoke no answer; she simply bent her thin neck in a soft nod.../

:: ::

'Hi, Link!'

Just a normal day in Skyloft. The island floated peacefully above a wispy blanket of clouds, protected from all the dangers below. The Goddess Hylia had raised this small paradise to the sky, keeping her people safely tucked away from everything.

'Hey there, Link!,' a voice greeted as Link hurried past.

The sun shone down brightly from above, its warm rays gently caressing the backs and shoulders of Hylia's people. It was a constant glow, a reassurance of peace, because Skyloft was a peaceful place, indeed. The worst of the dangers were easy enough to avoid, and though sometimes the food supply was tight, and the population was strictly managed, people in Skyloft were happy and incredibly nonviolent. Nobody even carried weapons, save for the Knights, and those were to be used against the aforementioned dangers. Nobody ever used weapons against other Skyloftians.

"How's it going, Link?," somebody called, along with, "Where are you running off to, huh?", and this was followed by the chime of laughter; pleasant, friendly, unworried laughter.

When Link was just a child, nobody ever noticed him. He was so silent and pathetic that he just lived his life underneath everybody's noses, completely invisible to them all. Maybe it was because the sight of him gave people this sad, lonely feeling that was alien to the entirety of the population, and so they just avoided him.

Once the unloved pariah, now a Hero that everybody recognized? It seemed fairytale-esque.

The blonde teen shook his head, clearing away the cloudiness in his mind as he raced uphill toward Gondo's house. He came to a halt near the area where he had spent the night, (the grass was still crushed to the ground from where he had laid) and here he swallowed, his chest burning slightly from the feeling of air racing so rapidly in and out.

Looking at the small cottage in observation, just as earlier this very morning, nothing appeared out of place about it. Link didn't want to feel unsettled, he didn't want to let himself believe that there was reason to worry. He shifted from his hesitation, his boots crunching on the dirt path beneath him as he continued forward. (This was different, so very different, from all the other times. Link found that he had been able to face each challenge on the journey that laid behind him because it had only ever been himself that he put in danger. Now, with others in danger, with his home of Skyloft in danger.. It was a different story.)

Walking into what was left of the small shadow the building cast from the low position of the sun in the sky, Link's sharp, blue optics blinked in adjustment to the change in lighting as his hand took a surprisingly firm grasp on the doorhandle, and the door itself was pulled back. Arriving unannounced, and casually making oneself at home in somebody else's private dwelling was typical in Skyloft; the community was small and tightly knit, and everybody knew one another almost intimately, it seemed.

As Link's weathered leather boots clicked with his cautious stride into the house, and the door creaked on its hinges behind him, not quite closing, he found himself again adjusting to an unusual amount of darkness. Most people in Skyloft would open their drapes during the day, and close them tightly at night; (in hopes of warding off the evil spirits that came out during late hours) Link recalled that Gondo's mother, Greba, often fully opened up the windows to air out their home during the day, though today their home seemed a place still slumbering. The curtains were drawn and shadows skirted about each crevice and corner of the house, withdrawing only from the offending sliver of light that stretched across the floor from the jarred door. That single pillar of washed out, white-light was similar to a pallid, reaching arm that bent and distorted at the area where the floor met the wall.

The ghastly, pale arm placed its touch upon one tiny glimmer on the floor; the light struck some stray bit of something unknown that lay forgotten on the ground, and a silver shimmer of reflected, colorless, sunshine twinkled back, in return, beckoning attention. Link did not investigate yet in approaching, instead opting to reach back for the door, drawing it further open, and evolving the tiny ray of sun into a wide, rectangular, bursting expanse of illumination in the stuffy room.

And as the light playing over the scene grew, so did the young hero's visual of what laid before him. Alongside one tiny bolt of shining silver were a thousand parts akin to it, scattered about the floor in a disorderly, chaotic fashion. The blonde teen could feel a breath capture itself in his throat, his chest suddenly paralyzed with shock as he took a few steps toward the mess, and his roving gaze flickered about a litter of nuts, bolts, screws, wires, metal scraps, this and that, and more variations of parts than Link could identify.. then finally, a spattered puddle of thick, black grime that was streaked in a short trail along the floor, slowly engulfing the mess.

The stench of the inky-black ooze was noxious, and overpowering, almost immediately causing blurred, watery eyes and a thumping irritation in the back of the blonde boy's skull; For a rather unpleasant moment, Link's mind hazed as his senses were overwhelmed from the unfamiliar, chemical scent. His eyes plastered their gaze on the creeping edge of the disgusting puddle as he struggled to maintain his focus. He watched the edge of the puddle, trying to force his eyes to see it in focus, and as he regained his composure, Link's stare strayed beyond the border of the black puddle, finding that it and the strewn metal gears were all centralized around one unmoving heap of sandy-colored metal that was face down and splashed in tar-black.

It was the robotic creature, Scrapper, but.. torn beyond recognition, aside from the familiar shape of his hull, which was the only part that remained in one piece. (And even that had been punctured quite heavily. It was from these gashes that the black muck was slowly weeping.)

If only to escape the smell of the liquid that was leaking out of the robot, Link backed away. It wasn't particularly difficult or mentally straining to see something so unlike a human, now seemingly _dead_; In fact, Link had seen plenty of these same robots lying about, sun-baked and forgotten, their own oily blood dried to colorless dust.. but.. it was slightly more jarring in this particular instance, just knowing that Scrapper had been alive, and Link had interacted with him, and seen that he could think and feel.. Link could confess guilt, at the very least, but only after he deliberated on what was most important.

As far as he knew, Scrapper couldn't really die. He could be repaired and restored to better condition, or so that was the Skyloftian's assumption. Other mortal creatures were different. Human beings were not so easy to 'fix', so Link carefully walked around the fallen, metallic creature, in search of the other person who he knew should have been here.

Desperately, Link searched each corner of the house from where he stood, finding not even a silhouette that resembled a person, (Actually, he might have found that, but it turned out to be exactly as it appeared. A silhouette that resembled a person and nothing more.) Then, finally, the sound of a muffled, ragged breath met Link's ears. (He was sure he felt his pointed ears twitch in response to the sign he had been waiting for.) It was softly faint, but because of the surrounding eerie-silent atmosphere of what should have been a warm, welcoming household, it was more than apparent.

Following the initial audible disturbance that had already shifted Link's apprehensive gaze in the general direction, the creaky shift of a wooden stool against the floor followed, and the mentioned stool tipped slightly, so that it pushed out of place. This movement did not go unnoticed, and the blonde male threw himself down on his knees, lowering his head enough to peer just beneath Gondo's work table to see yet another unmoving heap, crumpled on the floor.

It was surely ungraceful, but this was of little consequence, and it wasn't something Link really considered- The blonde boy hurriedly crawled across the floor on his knees, not even bothering with getting back to his feet, concentrated solely on making it over to the other Skyloftian as quickly as possible. Link flung aside the stool that had obscured and hidden Greba beneath the table, and the wooden item rolled off with violent force, noisily clattering along the floor, until it collided with the wall, deadening the inertia of Link's strike.

Gondo's mother, Greba, had been scrunched up inside a tiny crevice that was hardly even suitable for a Remlit to be curled napping, even despite her being a rather sizable woman; because of this, Link faced some slight difficulty in drawing her out to lay flat upon the floor while trying to also be delicate, completely unaware of her condition, and fearing it was likely dire.

Once the woman was on her back, the younger Skyloftian thought to check her pulse, just to see if she was even alive. It was immediately observable that she had been severely injured in what could have only been a most violent attack. Her dark gray skin was gashed here and there, especially along her arms, meaning she must have risen them as her only defense against some sort of edged weapon. Strands of her white hair feathered around her face in bloodied mats, and blood stained her clothes in messy blotches. One particularly dark splotch of saturated crimson stood out as the most obvious- a neatly rounded circle formed by the steady absorption of blood into the fabric of the older woman's blouse. It was a deep, debilitating stab-wound that could have been fatal, had it been just a fraction lower.

Before Link was even able to locate what he hoped would be the flutter of a pulse, he acknowledged that the woman was not only breathing, but she began to immediately waken upon being shifted from her hiding place. Her spectacles had been knocked from her face at some point in the struggle, and her vision was severely limited; she was left glancing dazedly up, eyes wildly flickering about the image of the one leaning over her, hardly able to make out the shape of a face.

"It's okay," Link spoke in a soft tone, his voice steady, even despite his dread. "I'm going to help you."

The teen knew the elderly woman would need further assistance than what he could offer, surely, but he kept his thoughts straight and focused, concentrating on what he could do now, at this very moment. He was practiced in thinking clearly, even in moments of panic, because he'd been forced to do so rather hastily in the past. (Though, half of the time, his ideas weren't the most brilliant; he was a trial-and-error kind of person.)

Still in possession of one last red potion, Link fumbled about in his adventure pouch, his fingers blindly sweeping the inside of the leathery pouch until he felt smooth glass beneath his fingertips, the surface warm from being constantly contained so near the teen's body heat.

The bottle was drawn out swiftly, and the young male cradled the woman's head, lifting it enough for her to swallow the crimson concoction; as long as she was awake, she could likely manage to swallow a few sips of the healing potion, and it would begin to mend her injuries. Gingerly, the young male pressed the smooth edge of the bottle to the woman's lips, and tipped the bottle so the tiniest stream of cherry-red was poured, slowly, into the woman's mouth. All the while, Link quietly consoled, doing anything he could to aid the injured Skyloftian, consumed with guilt in knowing that.. this was all his fault. (He tried his hardest to push those thoughts aside. He would have plenty of time to chastise himself later. This was not the time nor place.)

Thankfully, Greba's wounds indeed began to heal as she took slow sips of the heart potion; Link closely inspected to make certain that the damage was lessening, and in doing so, he acknowledged that it was sheer luck that these injuries could have only come from a rather small, unrefined weapon. (Not Ghirahim's sword, at the very least.) No, these cuts appeared to be the work of a dagger, and not one that was particularly sharp in this very instance.

And then Link wondered... was this caused by the shard from the sword that had mysteriously gone missing? It made perfect sense, really.. The sword itself had likely been sheathed in enough time to stop the poisoning effects of its aura, yet with one single piece remaining in Gondo's reach, the darkening of his heart might have slowed to a slight trickle that ate steadily away at the otherwise peaceful Skyloftian man, maddening him in the same methodical way the constant sound of a dripping faucet could.. Driving its victims insane, needing only enough time to take effect.

(Link would never be able to look Gondo in the face again.. not after this.)

'..why?,' the elderly woman softly muttered as she began to regain some of her strength. 'Am I.. really so terrible?'

As much as Link wanted to insist that Greba save her strength and not try to speak, he also felt it better that she hold onto consciousness in whatever way she could; in his own kind-spirited way, he could not help but offer his sympathetic attentiveness, his gentle blue eyes alert as they peered down into the woman's small, beady optics, which were glassy and pearlescent.

'I must be so terrible,' she muttered insistently, her voice weak and trembling.

"You're not terrible," Link stated factually, leaving no room for questioning, though his voice was softly soothing in its kind, even tone, "..whatever Gondo did, he didn't mean any of it, nor did he mean to do it," Link spoke as he coaxed the woman to finish drinking the rest of the potion, not really caring if he splurged the details about the sword now.. It didn't matter anymore. He knew that everyone was going to find out. All he could do was face the punishment that awaited him in the future.

When the last drop of potion had been swallowed, Link shoved the bottle back into his carrying pouch, and spared a nervous glance over his shoulder, not feeling entirely safe, just in sensing the stinging presence of the remaining sword-shard lurking somewhere nearby; the blonde male just knew it was close. He knew because the blade gave him the same feeling that Ghirahim, himself, gave him, and sometimes Link swore he could hear the spirit's snickers of mockery.

"Can you tell me what happened here?," Link asked the woman whose head was resting in his hand.

"My son was working late last night," the old woman began, her voice soft and still very weak, "..he was working by the light of just a single lantern, and paying no attention to his own welfare; he never seems to.. He had cut his hands up. He cut his hands up terribly as he worked.. I got out of bed at some point and I noticed all the blood. I insisted that he stop working, and do something about the cuts... Then suddenly, he became enraged in a way I've never seen him. He stood up, and kicked his chair aside, yelling at me to stop nagging him, saying that I always nag him when he is busy.. Then, he came toward me with a dagger he had made from a piece of the sword he had been working with last night. He attacked me with it, but Scrapper got in the way, trying to stop him, trying to reason that he wasn't himself.. If it weren't for Scrapper distracting him, he might have.. He might have killed me.."

As the woman finished her recollection of the horrible events she had faced before being left to cower, injured and in pain beneath a wooden desk, she suddenly sank into hysterics, weeping and repeating, "I must be so terrible. He must hate me so.."

"No, that's not true!," Link insisted again, "It was that sword that made him act that way! ..I..this..," he sighed in deep regret as he gathered himself, "This is my fault.. I'm so sorry." (Yes, once again, Link's foolishness was the cause for unnecessary suffering. Once again, the teen found himself saddled with more guilt than he could carry without breaking.. and yet he pushed himself forward. It was the only thing he _could_ do.)

"Do you know where the dagger is?," the Skyloftian boy asked as the woman began to calm.

Greba shook her head softly, though her face wrinkled in an expression of uncertainty; still, she offered what she could manage. "He dropped it after he tore up the robot.. I'm not sure where it is."

With a nod, Link carefully let the woman's head slide from his hand, and he assured her that he would go for help before he left her side; he was positive that she would be fine, physically, yet he was still nervous in leaving her alone, concerned over the odds of Gondo coming home early for any reason. 'Surely,' he was thinking, 'nothing bad will happen if I make certain to get the missing piece of the blade back.'

Link scoured the floor for anything resembling a dagger. Amidst doing this, he thought to take a pillow from one of the beds over to be tucked beneath Greba's head, for comfort.

The home was still dimmer than usual for any Skyloftian resident during the day, on top of being scattered with parts from the violently disassembled robotic creature, yet even so, Link eventually caught sight of a trace of polished ebony among the mess, and he brushed a handful of metallic parts away to reveal a small, silvery-bladed dagger that had obviously been etched from the steel of Ghirahim's sword.

Quickly, the dagger was tucked down into one of Link's boots to be carried similarly to the blessed blade that Link still had on his person. He would definitely place the cursed steel into the sealed chest before he set out for Eldin province, however, this sufficed for now, because time was of the essence. Making haste, the teen rushed to find somebody who could aid the elderly woman.

[And as well, Link was rushing off to face whatever the punishment would be for his thoughtlessness of which he was all too dreadfully aware.]

:: ::

Various tones of colored stone- some were smoother than others, some had a twinkling grain or striped patterns, but most of the irregularly shaped rocks were just tones of brown, captured and lain flat within a dull, gray mortar, and coated in a clear, glassy polish. Link was nervously listing the colors he could find, other than brown, as he scrutinized the floor beneath his feet. (Orange, green, violet, yellow, blue..one stone was even a very soft, rosy hue.)

There was no purpose for this action, aside from occupying Link's mind as he remained silent, not daring to look any higher than the edge of a large, crimson rug on the floor of Headmaster Gaepora's office. He needed something to focus on, something to distract him from the thumping of his own heartbeat in his ears, and the tightening pressure, like fingers, squeezing around his chest.

The teen's face was flushed with warmth, and it wove its way around his neck, and stung at the tips of his pointed ears, his blood feeling as though it may boil over.

Never in his life had Link felt such shame. Facing one's failure was difficult enough. Facing a failure that impacted the lives of others to such a degree that it was cause for deliberation between all of one's professors, and a man who was like a father-figure... that was in an entirely new league. The strain upon the blonde male's nerves was more taut and brutal than any physical challenge he'd ever faced; maybe that was because all he could do was stand here, and wait for the others surrounding him to finish their discussion.

'What other colors are there?' Link was questioning inwardly, his blue eyes flickering about the ground, desperately hunting for any unstudied stone to distract him as another voice in his head kept saying, 'I can feel their eyes on me. I can feel their looks of scorn, of disappointment. I've let them down and they can't forgive me.'

"We haven't had to banish anybody for _years_," Link managed to hear one of the professors softly whisper. He was sure that Owlan and Horwell were standing side-by-side, and had been exchanging conversation just between themselves the entire time. They likely had their elegant hands lifted so to muffle their utterances behind the material of their long sleeves, but it was still faintly audible.

"Not since I was a child.. I can barely even recall that incident," one whispered back to the other, his voice at a high enough volume for Link to pick up the ring of disbelief in his tone.

Skyloft was such a peaceful place... when any event outside of the norm occurred, it was cause for excitement, and in the case that it was a great calamity, people always seemed so incredibly shocked, as if they were unaware of even a possibility for disaster.

"No way," Eagus suddenly stated, addressing the full company present in the headmaster's office, "I just can't even grasp this! Having to go down to the bazaar and cause a big scene by collecting Gondo and putting him in isolation was bad enough. He's such a nice guy! I can't believe he'd do something like this!"

"Things aren't always so simple as they appear," Owlan calmly spoke in response to Eagus, "much in life can appear harmless, but prove itself to be the opposite."

"..and there are forces that we can't fully understand, yet have no choice but to acknowledge," Horwell decidedly added.

With a heavy sigh, Gaepora lifted himself from the chair behind his desk, and walked slowly round to stand in front of it. Link counted the calm patter of the wise, old man's footsteps until his feet came into the teen's spectrum of downcast vision. The change in position was the headmaster's way of 'joining' the other Skyloftians that had gathered in his office; he now intended to take part in the discussion, whereas he had been mostly listening in thoughtful silence before.

"As Link explained," the headmaster wisely intoned, "the sword he now has in his possession was responsible for what happened."

Suddenly, the feeling of having scornful gazes turned in his direction intensified, and Link wished that he could find some tiny crack in the floor so that he could make himself like a chuchu and sink out of sight; if only.

"I want to be relieved," Eagus spoke with a shrug, and what sounded like a defiant shake of his head, "..but I've never known an evil sword. Weapons are just the extension of the hand that wields them... at least as far as I know."

'..but you said you didn't believe Gondo would commit such a horrible act?'

'I don't... but a sword?'

"This isn't an ordinary blade," Gaepora interrupted to cease any further debate. "We all know dark forces exist in our world, and I've lived to see a sword that housed a spirit who could speak and think and act decisively, just like each of us here.. I believe in what Link has told us. In knowing that a weapon could possess such frightening power, I'm relieved that the situation was no worse than what it was.."

As the headmaster finished, all was silent. There clearly was no further need for discussion between the professors, but the teen could just imagine the words poised on each of their lips, refusing to be uttered, for the question itself was much too obvious. (..maybe they all were feeling some twinge of regret, because they were all hesitating to blame the one they knew was responsible, at least aloud, anyway.)

_Who do we punish?_ That was the question they all wanted answered.

"Link," Gaepora addressed the teen sternly, yet still with enough regret in his voice that Link could _hear_ his_ feelings_; the man didn't want to reprimand Link for one little disturbance when the teen had been the one to save their very existence. He didn't want to scold, because Link was certainly not a child, yet at the same time, Link was like a son to the headmaster, and he didn't want place the full burden of an adult's punishment on him.

Link slowly raised his deep, oceanic gaze to look into the face of the authority figure standing before him. The blonde male knew his eyes must have been brimming with shame.

Again, the headmaster sighed, but he set his own wise countenance in calm neutrality as he spoke, "I'm sure you feel terrible about what happened, and that is why I don't want to punish you. This was an accident."

The others present shifted about in silent reaction to the decision Gaepora had come to; Link could see the movement around him, even if he had yet to look away from the headmaster. He could see that Owlan and Horwell were whispering to one another again, and this time it was too quiet for the teen to hear.

"However," Gaepora continued, "It was a mistake that might have been prevented.. For that, you are responsible. I do hope the weight of this is punishment enough."

The young Skyloftian allowed his gaze to slowly lower back to the floor, until his eyes were hidden beneath his lashes, and he gave his head a soft, sullen nod. He might have been grateful for the leniency, but.. that didn't mean he believed it was deserved, and it didn't serve to quell the sense of disappointment in himself that he felt in common with everyone else present.

A silent nod was acceptable enough repentance for Link, or at least as far as Gaepora was concerned. He'd known the boy for a very long time. He knew Link's background, and he knew the things that the teen had been through. So, of course, he was also aware of this particular quirk- Link always had a tendency to withhold speech when he was in an uncomfortable or compromising situation. The older man just nodded in return, and spoke the last of his warning to the teen, "..this surely goes without saying; Please, take that sword away from here, and do not, under any circumstance, ever bring it back to Skyloft."

Again, Link nodded, this time choosing to speak one single word, "..understood."

This was a promise he could keep; he was to leave for Eldin Province this very day, to destroy the dark sword that rested on his back. Ghirahim would never be given a chance to hurt anybody ever again.

:: ::

The area near Eldin Volcano had yet to recover from the eruptive activity that was in effect the very last time Link had descended here.

The eruptions had ceased, yet the sky was ever so dark, the sun blotted out by a thick blanket of ashen-gray clouds, blackened soot and smoke. These dense, foreboding clouds hovered low to the surface, almost reaching down far enough to hide away the gaping mouth that was Eldin Volcano's peak; the positioning of the soot and ash that hovered in the air caused the hilly undersides to be illuminated by a hellish red glow, which was the heated vibrance of the molten earth.

The magma sea had risen- That was Link's next observation. He found the remaining areas of solid land almost entirely unfamiliar, aside from some untouched parts here and there. There were alcoves he recalled that had now become the cradle to magma that had crusted slightly on the surface, but still bubbled and boiled just beneath. The young hero heightened his caution, not wanting to find himself placing his foot into a pit while assuming it was solid, just to find out otherwise. The teen had come too close to these sorts of disasters before, and he had other experiences that made him perfectly aware of how unkind fire felt against flesh. (The creature Scaldera had left Link with haunting memories as well as everlasting reminders that were branded into the teen's very flesh.)

Helpfully enough, there were also some areas of fresh, new land. Link had to be cautious in re-exploring, but he was grateful to find that much of the magma that had previously been spewn had now cooled to blackened stone that was etched with rusty-red. With care, Link sure-footedly made his way toward the volcano.

Link had been instructed to toss the blade into magma, but the pools outside the mountain itself seemed to be of questionable temperatures; the teen wanted to make sure he chose the perfect area, so to not jeopardize the effectiveness of what he'd come to accomplish. To the teen, the details of what would be perfect were rather specific. He'd seen great lakes of liquid fire that Spumes bathed and swam about in; the magma splashed about around those creatures no differently than water. It boiled so hot that it was fluid and it glowed with vibrant yellow light, just like the very sun above. Surely, it could engulf the cursed sword and swallow the blackened steel up for good.

For now, the Hero stayed well away from the magma flow. It was ever so volatile, having not quite calmed down from the recent activity, and the young Skyloftian preferred to tread more carefully anyway. He'd scouted out what seemed to be a decent path around the mess, which would lead him to the volcano itself, though it meandered a bit out of the way. It would surely be less dangerous, and even despite the distance, less time-consuming, because less caution would be necessary.

The rust-red soil caked the brown leather of Link's boots as he walked with just enough rush to keep his pace timely, yet with enough care to remain safe from danger. He did not wish to dawdle, especially as he ventured along the stamped pathway, into a short area that was rocky, and canyon-like.

Because of the geography, it had been impossible to know what laid just ahead, and Link found himself coming to an abrupt halt, making not a single sound aside from the skid of his boots in the dust, as he found himself just inside one of the Bokoblin campsites.

His expectations had been shrieks of surprise, the sound of bowstrings being pulled taut, and the damnable trumpeting of a monster horn. Link's hand was on the hilt of his practice blade before he even had time to look around and realize that this campsite had been abandoned.

Actually, this site was not just abandoned, it looked like it had become a battleground; the huts had torn roofs and walls, surfaces as far as the eye could see were punctured with Bokoblin arrows, and some places had even been left charred, victim to wildfire. Curiously, however, there were no tunnels or bolt holes, or any signs of the Mogma. This struggle had not occurred between Mogma and Bokoblin; this fight had been among the Bokoblin ranks as they fought for control in the chaos that had come over their tribe. A delicate string in the net of command had come loose somewhere, and the uncivilized creatures lost what little traces of human-like quality they might have possessed, reverting to fully-feral beasts.

Link stalked quietly along, walking through what was left of the camp as he was sure that the tribe itself had moved on from here. (There was little left, so what choice did they have?) He kept his wits about him all the while, vivid, blue eyes flickering over the huts that lay in shambles. The solitude that had since fallen over the battleground offered no solace to the wanderer; no, the entire area seemed injured and deathly-still from the bloodshed that had taken place. It was captured in lifeless suspension and a troubling amount of silence, so much so that the occasional sound of a rock dislodging itself from the canyon walls echoed in a way that seemed so sudden and so very noisy.

It put Link on edge, but he remained intrepid and resolute; his pace did not falter, even as the winding, crimson canyon eventually funneled into the gaping mouth of a cave. The blonde male could see through the lightless reaches of the cavern, a small dot of light at the end; It was a short, straight walk, seemingly uncomplicated, thought it was dark.

Link did not hesitate, he simply proceeded, the sound of his footsteps slowly becoming louder to his ears as the vibrations bounced from the enclosed walls and back to him. As the light slowly disappeared with each forward step, the wandering Skyloftian expected to feel the air around him cool, as it did in most deep, dark caves, yet as he walked, it only grew more sweltering and suffocating than the arid, smoky air outside, in the canyon. The heat from the magma radiated through the stone, making the innermost stretch of the cave similar to an oven, or a kiln. (It almost seemed as though it would be possible to roast in this cave, if anybody dared to remain for too long.)

Nestled in the tightest nooks above was a resting group of Fire Keese; Link noticed them well before they were roused by the echo of his footsteps. The dull, red glow of the living flame surrounding their furry bodies and the luminous orange of the creatures' wide, round eyes was enough to call attention to them, even as they tucked themselves deep inside the ceiling's crevices. Their ears twitched in alert as Link began past, and even as he hoped they would just leave him be, with pitchy, territorial squeaks, they fluttered down from where they hung, flaring in aggression as they attacked the wandering teen.

The metallic ring of the practice blade being drawn from the sheath on Link's back resounded in chorus with an almost immediate screech, the sword dispatching the aggressive, winged rodents in perfect form. Even in the dark, Link's strikes were precise and perfectly timed, leaving the small but feral beasts to flop to the ground, their bodily flame extinguishing in a violent hiss.

'Thump, thump, thump,'

Link's head snapped up in attention, hearing the heavy patter of something approaching, something not-so-tiny as a few Keese. He stood, frozen, feeling somehow safe in the darkness, thinking there was perhaps some chance that it swallowed up any visual trace of him, hiding him. He waited, knowing whatever was advancing toward him was near, and he dared not move, not wanting to trigger any sort of instinctual attack, if he could avoid it.

The thumping grew to a deep bass of tremors, which revealed itself in form at the end of the tunnel; suddenly, the light from the end of cave was eclipsed by the expansive frames of three great, crimson Moblins holding massive shields. One alone was not a _terrible_ threat, and Link knew he held enough strength within himself to fight handfuls of these gargantuan brutes, but he just preferred to avoid them. This did not mean he intended to divert his path; that would be far too inconvenient, and the Skyloftian teen was not one to let Moblins block his path, if he could force his way through. Slowly, he eased himself back against the cave wall, using the dismal light of the area to his advantage. (He always got the feeling that Moblins and Bokoblins hadn't the keenest vision, anyway.) He planned to just wait for the wall of crimson beasts to either bypass him, or he would launch himself over the heads of the Moblins, using their shields to his own advantage.

But then, as the three-wide group of Moblins came just far enough in the cave for the vibrancy of their complexion to be dulled, they abruptly stopped walking, which left Link puzzled, momentarily. He'd had only enough time to ask himself what these monstrous creatures could be up to before he heard the sudden wail of a Bokoblin monster horn.

Utter shock and confusion; that was what Link was feeling. He didn't know if the Moblins had seen him, or not, or if the trumpeting of the horn had anything whatsoever to do with him. At first, he didn't move, because the trio of enormous and savage monsters weren't acting in pursuit of him at all. (They really, really didn't look as if they'd even acknowledged him. They were just suspiciously waiting there.)

When the sounds of violent shrieking and hissing erupted through the narrow corridor, the blonde teen quickly turned to look over his shoulder. The sound was more vicious and desperate than he'd ever heard, and as he looked toward the entrance to the cave, he now could see a hoard of Bokoblin clogging the tunnel with their bodies, crimson savages lining the tunnel from wall to wall, choking it off. This mob had rushed into the cave upon the signaling noise of the horn, and they advanced hurriedly toward the young Skyloftian's no-longer-secret position.

Link had been fox-holed; At one end of the corridor, a crowd of Bokoblin were attempting to smoke out their prey, threatening violence in a way that was more blood-thirsty than ever, while at the other, the bigger soldiers waited for the prey to come to its death. The tribe had become discontent, and they were hardly holding themselves together cooperatively. The teen wouldn't pretend he knew why this hoard had intentionally orchestrated such a snare, or why victims were of such great importance, (obviously this couldn't be about the sword. That would mean the Bokoblins knew in advance that Link would be coming with it. That was impossible. No, this was the result of their structure falling to shambles in the absence of leadership.) but he also did not plan to make himself an easy target.

No matter their size, or how well-armed they were, Moblins just didn't threaten Link. The first time he laid eyes on one, yes, he'd been intimidated; the first time he'd been forced to engage one, yes, he'd taken a few cheap strikes in order to make it easier to simply escape, since he was still inexperienced; but now he knew how dim-witted and slow of movement the monsters were, and how easily they were bested with just the slightest bit of finesse in maneuvering and striking. He wasn't afraid of them.

Like the stalked and trapped fox that he was, Link carefully planned his path of escape with analytical glances, before he swiftly bolted toward the wall that the Moblins had constructed of their girth and their shields. In seeing Link run, the violent congregation of Bokoblin harshly wailed and screeched as they pursued, and the Moblins, seeing Link coming toward them, grunted and growled, readying their spears, intent on impaling the boy's narrow frame.

'They won't get the chance,' Link thought, though he tightly clutched the practice blade in one hand, just in case. He planned to escape nimbly up and over the wooden shields before the beastly Moblins even knew he'd vanished. He smiled secretly, slyly to himself, somewhat admiring the efforts of the tribe. 'This was a clever plan,' he inwardly complimented the savage creatures.

With a bounding leap, the teen's boots thumped against the wood of the Moblin's guarding shields, and he scaled the steady surface with skill, launching himself easily into the air once he was at the top, where he flipped with grace overtop of the massive Moblin's heads, so close he could see their glazed eyes following the green streak of his rapid movements.

But before he could make his landing, however, Link's blue eyes widened in startled astonishment that he hadn't even time to process before he felt a sharp sting of pain, piercing through him; it was the sudden, perilous punishment for what had either been arrogance or pure underestimation of an enemy. In midair, Link noticed far too late that a group of Bokoblin archers had crouched themselves secretly behind the cloaking wall provided by the Moblins; these archers had their arrows loaded and held ready, with their bowstrings pulled taut, just waiting for Link to do exactly what he'd done.

The arrows cut through the air at close range, the twang of the bowstrings being released and the sharp whish of the arrows noticeable seconds before the flare of consuming pain, as if those noises were the brutal toll of injury's announcement. Link's mind was seized in sudden, immobilizing pain, and because of this, he struck the ground with a harsh thud, and rolled once or twice.

It's notable to mention that Link had already realized in the past that Bokoblins differed from tribe to tribe, in subtle details. Some tribes used very triangular arrowheads and spears, while others crafted longer, narrower, more needle-like weaponry. To his dismay, Link quickly acknowledged that today, he'd encountered some of the second variety.

As he pulled himself up from the dusty ground, the teen deftly endured the pain that came with using his left arm, if only to get back to his feet. He managed to get up to his knees, and that was as far as he went before his mind forced his attention to the damage he'd been dealt.

Because of the shape of the arrowheads, these particular arrows had managed to penetrate the young knight's protective chainmaile, making it possible for the archers to lodge one arrow in the blonde male's shoulder, while another had shallowly punctured him just above his hip. Blue eyes were forced down to observe the lower injury; the long, narrow body of the arrow jutted out from where the projectile had been embedded and the arrowhead itself hadn't even fully punctured the teen, likely having grazed his pelvic bone, if he had to judge from the angle. The soft green of the teen's tunic wrinkled and bunched around the edges of the arrowhead, having somewhat absorbed the impact, and pushed into the wound, sponging traces of blood straight from beneath the skin, sucking at it like a leech.

Link bit his lip as he tore the arrow out from the wound it had caused, his teeth sinking into soft, vulnerable flesh, though not distracting him for even a moment as the jagged object was ripped from beneath damaged muscle and it scraped sickeningly against bone as it was dislodged. He failed to restrain the pained cry that pushed its way up from the very bottom of his lungs, breaking past his attempt to stifle any noise.

Blood-ripened lips remained parted slightly as all of Link's breath escaped in one agonizing scream, leaving the blonde male gulping in a few long, deep gasps of air. He tried to steady his head from the sudden lightness, and the thump of his pulse, which beat so painfully loud in his ear; it was like a buzz, an echo. The sound nearly drowned out the Bokoblin hoard as the savage creatures came toward the teen, yet his eyes stared down only at the bloodied arrow in his trembling hand before his fingers unfurled and let the thing drop to the ground.

The sound of the wooden object clattering softly against the dirt felt as if it awakened Link's senses, his instinct to survive.

His entire body was shaking; he was in a state of mild shock from the unexpected injuries, from seeing a harsh, red stain begin to grow from a tiny tear in his tunic to a defined circle of cold, clammy wetness just beneath the leather of his belt. The shock helped, though; it helped because it served to blot the full intensity of the pain from Link's mind, working alongside the adrenalin pulsing through him at the danger of the situation. He found that his mind medicated his body in a perfect chemical concoction, so that the pain dissipated to a degree, and Link could force himself into mobility again.

The archers had drawn more arrows and were ready to shoot again. The Moblins had turned and were glaring over their shields at the grounded Skyloftian, their growling a beastly gurgle as trails of saliva trickled down their chins and their expressions seemed to indicate that they were eyeing their next meal. Some of the Bokoblin troupe had shuffled past the massive Moblins and they had the blonde male surrounded- They just hesitated to make a definitive move. They were waiting for Link to move first.

The blue fire of Link's gaze traced over each of the squealing Bokoblins, from those who had their arrows aimed in his direction, to those that had clubs in their hands and were waiting for the chance to tenderize dinner. His eyes held a fierce intensity that did not break, not even as his right hand made an effort to pull the other arrow out from where it was embedded in his shoulder. (It seemed that this one was buried a bit more deeply, however, and Link hadn't the time to deal with it, nor the strength to bear it at the moment.) Knowing it was likely best to let the invasion remain to prevent any heavier bleeding, the blonde male sharply tugged the wooden body of the arrow downward, jarring the injury slightly, painfully, but successfully snapping the arrow so that it no longer protruded. The teen managed to restrain a hiss of discomfort, this time, in clenching his jaw firmly.

Still watching the hoard carefully as they danced around him, seeing each of the broad-bodied, red imps looking maddened and riled, Link slowly took his own shield from his back; he did this in slow, unthreatening movements, not wanting to provoke the archers to shoot before he had readied his defense. Once he had his shield in hand, though, he clambered to his feet hurriedly, more strength in his motions than typically managed by bleeding, wounded prey; the archers finally took offense to the unrelenting body language of their target and the rebelliously determined, courageous gleam in the young human's sapphire pools, and they fired a new wave of arrows.

This time, Link was able to defend against the barrage, letting the weapons clang against the surface of his shield. He felt the bump of the projectiles with the back of his hand. His senses amidst battle had now heightened to such a peak in the moment that he could count the individual pangs and clatters of five arrows before they all hit the ground, then he rushed at the archers before they had the chance to draw more arrows.

The silver of the practice blade flashed like white light in Link's eyes as it passed before him, swinging deftly, striking the otherwise unarmed archers. His arm ached in complaint, a sharp, embedded object shredding apart the tissue of the Skyloftian's shoulder with his movement, yet the most he felt was a bitter sting, pressure, and the soft, steady drip of blood. Nothing interrupted the symphonic flow of his movement, his boots sliding in the red dust of the stone floor, carrying him with fluidity. And though his wielding of the sword in his hand was artful, the depth of his strikes fell short at the now-unfamiliar, inconvenient length of the steel.

Link managed, regardless, to splay open the main bodily cavities of the first few archers, leaving them flailing in gushes of blood that melded visually against the red of their skin, invisible. Then, the last of them was sent toppling back against the jagged stone of the corridor, grasping at its slashed neck, and wheezing out hoarse noises of distress, while its liquid lifeforce trickled between its fingers.

The Moblins were bellowing roars in response to the sudden strength of the prey they thought they had bested with their clever trap. They thought they had overwhelmed the young human, but he could hear the rushed, urgent sound of the rest of the hoard, coming at him from his back, and he spun on heel into another strike, which successfully connected with only one of the demonic imps, the sword too short to dispatch numerous enemies in the same gloriously merciless fashion as the Master Sword.

Another strike, and one Bokoblin proved himself to be either quick of reflex, or lucky; His own unrefined blade met with a clang against the practice blade, and he sharply shoved back against Link with force as their blades clashed. Normally, this might not have been such a successful tactic, but the blonde boy grimaced at the violent jarring of his injured limb, and he staggered back, losing his grace for just one moment, giving his enemies one tiny window of opportunity to regain their control of the situation.

..and regain it they did.

Another one of the feral creatures hissed, and took a swing at Link with a heavy club, capturing the teen's left arm between the jagged wall of the cave that the human had fallen against, and the battering velocity, the excruciating weight of the club itself. Once more, the teenage Skyloftian's injury flared with pain, but though he hissed and winced, his fingers only tightened on the hilt of his blade, refusing to lose his one hope to fight his fate in this overwhelming situation.

One, two, three, maybe four Bokoblins ganged against Link's dominant appendage, clawed fingers digging into his skin as they restrained his weapon-baring arm, and held him pinned to the wall. He struggled to pull his arm back, feeling them trying to pry the sword from his hand, but he could not free himself. At the very least, they were not able to successfully unwind his fingers from the hilt of the blade, either.

Others quickly rushed in, sure now of victory. Link's right arm was yanked back in the same manner as his left, and it was pressed down to the wall at his back, the straps of the shield he'd been using as a defense now aiding in keeping him restricted, like unbreakable bindings.

The Bokoblin bodies pressed into Link, the lack of space between himself and the hoard enough to keep him motionless, so much so that they hardly even had to restrain him now. He kicked and struggled, surely making himself comparable to a stinging Deku Hornet for the savages' shins and knees, but they only screeched at him in fury. There were hands all over the teen's body, dozens of hands, all stubby and clawed and not at all delicate as they tugged at him, and scraped at whatever they could, almost as though they intended to tear off his clothes, then his skin, and so on, layer by layer.

The blonde boy groaned at the desperation of his own situation, thinking he would sound ever courageous as he flailed determinedly, yet his breathy vocalizations rang like helpless whimpers to his ears, or so they did amongst the indecipherable babble of the Bokoblins. Link was panting, his wounds painful, yes, but more notably, they were throbbing. He could feel his own pulse pounding beneath the skin of his neck and in his temples as beads of sweat collected just above the sensitive shell of his ear and trailed down, sticking his blonde hair to his face. His cheeks were hot and felt flushed, his body temperature rising despite the loss of blood, yet he couldn't decide if the most overwhelming heat was a result of convection from the wall on which he was pinned, or the endless swell of sweating bodies holding him from the front.

Link's head fell back, his lips still resembling petals of rose from his blood and biting, and they opened to allow deeper breathing, his lungs hoping for air that wasn't stuffy and humid. The teen's blue eyes had partially hidden beneath his tired lids, his entire body weakening, yet he found himself focusing on one of the Moblins, for some reason or another. It stood, towering over the Bokoblins, much more poised and calm as it held a spear aimed squarely toward the blonde male's neck. It was waiting, patient, but Link moreso stared straight through the creature with disgust apparent, rather than analyzing its intent.

And then, Link felt a snap; the Moblin's fidgeting hands had managed to relieve him of his belt, and they were ripping at his tunic and his chainmaile, until he felt the humid covering lifted from his abdomen, and the pale of his flesh was exposed from beneath. He groaned again in both panic and loathing, his head leaning forward to suddenly look upon the ministrations of his captors. He could see the wound above his hip, the skin around it a deep, unhealthy blueish-violet, which faded into feverish pink and red from blood. He saw one of the Bokoblins brandish a dagger of etched, volcanic obsidian, which gleamed like beautifully sharpened, black glass, and the demonic creature placed a stubby hand on Link's middle, as if to steady his own hand in preparation to disembowel his prisoner.

The teen was unaware what replenished his fight; whether it was the sudden thought of watching his own guts being torn out, or the simple fact that he'd fallen still just long enough to regain some inkling of strength, he had no idea. A fierce yell tore from his throat, and he threw one leg out in a kick that he'd actually aimed toward the Bokoblin with the dagger; the space between himself and the red-skinned being was very slight, yet the blonde teen mustered enough force to cause his target to topple back with a screech and an angered hiss. Within that very same second, Link gave his right arm a violent tug, ripping it and his shield from confinement. Immediately, the teen shoved his shield forward, violently striking any Bokoblin in range and causing an unbalanced shift in the crowd of bodies that were plastered back to back; some merely stumbled, but others fell fully back, giving way to a domino effect that weakened their hold on the Skyloftian.

This shift in strength, along with another well-placed bash of the teen's shield, allowed Link's left hand to be freed from the grasp of the Bokoblin hoard; during his moments of restraint, he felt as though his hand and his weapon had become so distant and lost that it was as if they were not even attached. He actually hadn't a clue that the sword was still knotted between his fingers, but he gave it a proud and mighty swing as he reclaimed use of his arm. His injured shoulder was stiffened, and it pained him to move it, but he fought against his own limitations as much as he fought the Bokoblins now.

He fought all that stood before him, for the sake of survival alone.

Link's wild, widely-arching strikes steadily slew the Bokoblin wall; the bodies fell like nothing more than delicate leaves, diced brutally from the branch of life; meaningless, worthless, pointless. The teen had buried his heart beneath his own will to live. He didn't see people before him, all he saw were faceless devils, mindless monsters that killed without regard for the price of life. Even as Link could hear the Bokoblin's babbled jibberish-language, and he could make out muffled yet distinct words shouted between the red-skinned army of devils, he thought of it not as speaking or communication, not as anything with meaning, but as noise. It was all just noise; it was an endless chaotic melody that was unpleasant to the ear, and had almost always been there in the background whenever Link found himself taking a weapon in hand and fighting for his life.

..and Link realized in a moment of pure horror that he had even come to resent all this noise, these creatures and everything about them. He _hated_ them. He hated them because it was their fault, _this _was _their fault_, _not his_; they forced him to shatter his own gentle nature, to disregard his own morality, to take life. Could he really be blamed for all this death?

Everything became a blur of red as Link plowed his way through the seemingly endless mob. His chest was burning from his rapid breath, he could feel his blonde bangs sticking to the humidity of his skin, his heart was pounding in his ears, and his equilibrium was askew as the blood loss began to take a toll on him. He did not quit, however; The blade in his hand relentlessly sliced, until one of the massive Moblins pushed aside a whole handful of Bokoblins, and charged forward, stepping on bodies so that bones crunched beneath his heavy weight and he left his own kind squealing in agony beneath his feet.

Perceptive, blue eyes, as fierce and wild as lightning, watched the Moblin's arm draw back, prepared to send his spear forward, into his target. Those sharp eyes observed with careful precision, right until the moment that the sharpened spearhead cut through the air in Link's direction. As the Moblin thrust his spear, Link dodged the blow in a quick sidestep, hearing the bitter cracking sound of the sharp weapon digging into the stone wall behind him, shattering a chunk of the stone to pebbles and sand, and lodging itself where it landed.

In harmonic flow, as the spear was buried in the wall at Link's back, the teen severed the wooden body of the spear, disarming the Moblin before the Skyloftian slashed apart the defensive wooden shield, and he plunged his sword to the hilt in the Moblin's immense girth. As the sword was yanked back, Link's boot was lifted in a kick that sent the gargantuan red beast teetering backward and toppling with a groan as he fell onto his back, crushing beneath him any Bokoblins that had been in the way. (If they hadn't been crushed, at the very least, they were momentarily disabled.)

The collision of the massive brute with the ground sent a distinct tremor through the dusty Eldin soil, and many of the Bokoblins jumped back from where their massive cousin-devil and ally had landed, almost as though they expected the aftershock to cause them some sort of physical harm. Link, with sharp wit and determination, decidedly took advantage of the slight break in the crowd. The blonde male kept his shield raised in defense, actively slashing to and fro with the practice blade, if only to guard what his shield left open to attack, and he bypassed the fallen Moblin, hurriedly bolting as far as he could, his focus plastered on the end of the tunnel ahead of him.

Link met the hoard head-on, purposefully pushing through the crowd at its lowest areas of concentration. He did not stop moving. He did not stand still for even a second, knowing he would be resigning himself to remain in this mess forever if he did so. He pushed, shoved, and bashed anything in his way with his shield, stumbling slightly here and there over fallen bodies, capturing all wakes of things under the weight of his boots, but his balance did not falter to the point of him falling even once. More than anything else, Link did not hesitate at all in letting his blade cut down the devils blocking his path. He was wildly swinging, no longer worrying about finesse, because no matter how or where he let his sword fly, it struck something.

Resounding and horrifying; that was the terrible, sharp and blood-slickened sound of flesh being slashed open and apart. In such rapid succession, that sound met Link's ears, until each individual slice of his blade faded into one endless spree of violent brutality and death. It hardly mattered, because the teen's mind was occupied only by the thought of escaping this foxhole deathtrap and with breaking free of this endless hoard of screaming terrors. He could see the end of the tunnel ahead, and he was so close to it, so close to breathing in the sweet air of freedom.

If Link hadn't been enclosed in such a manner, this battle would have been much easier; it was the tact of the Bokoblins that left him in such a desperate position, and in his mind, the young Skyloftian was unconsciously pondering this as if it were deja vu. There was a tenseness tugging at him, making his heart pound faster as his nerves pulled taut; an unwitting belief had suddenly manifested itself, forcing Link to feel as though he were in a dire rush for one reason or another. Link easily realized that his subconscious had backtracked in his memory to the very last time he was forced to slay such a number of Bokoblins with brutal tenacity.

It was bitterly ironic. Like some pitifully broken, psychologically destitute veteran of warfare, Link had flashed back in time to that terrifying, horrible day when he'd only wanted to save his best friend and these devils stood in his way. He felt now what he felt then, and it frightened him; it frightened him that he cared so little about how much blood his hand had to spill. And though Zelda was safe from nightmarish creatures that swooped in to take advantage in moments of vulnerability _this time_, the cause was still the same- that accursed and wretched creature known as Ghirahim.

Link gave the practice blade one particularly frustrated swing, hoping the falling bodies would reel backward and out of his way. At the very same time, one Bokoblin faced him head-on, like some higher force of demonic courage, meeting Link's sword with a heavy club. The collision of their two weapons came with the half-pang of steel, ringing with audible sharpness that was slightly dulled by the sheer solidity and dense weight of the club against the sword. The blonde boy pushed with all of his strength into the strike, trying to match the force of the stocky, crimson devil's bludgeoning. Then, against all the teen's hopeful expectations, the musical chime of his dancing weapon turned into a stifled, metallic cry which chorused a vividly dreadful shatter, like glass, into a hundred jagged pieces.

The practice blade, having endured the beating of ceaseless battle, was at last too brittle to stand any further abuse, and it fractured violently apart in Link's hand, scattering its small, reflective, silver remains in the dirt. The endless array of differently shaped fragments stared up mournfully at the now-unarmed boy who had wielded them when they were proudly in one piece, reflecting a most troubling failure on the shine of their silvery surface.

Even now, as he was so near the edge of the mob, without a weapon, Link was helpless to fend off the Bokoblins. He gaped in horror at the hilt of his blade, the only bit that was left of it; the victorious Bokoblin who stood before the Skyloftian, however, wasted not a single second before he sent his weapon hurtling toward his disarmed opposition, aiming a harsh blow for Link's middle, which he landed in the blonde's moment of distraction.

The teen toppled back from the sheer force of the strike, his back meeting the dusty ground with an audible thud, though he'd curled himself inward before he even had enough time to realize he'd fallen. His body resumed some instinctive fetal position as he clutched at his battered abdomen and his chest seized from the sharp, forceful way the breath had just been jarred from his lungs. Link gasped, attempting to coax air back into himself, though it came with an indescribable pain that flared mercilessly throughout his core, and he was forcibly resigned to a spell of ragged coughing that produced a spatter of blood over the young male's lips and chin.

There was no time nor hope for recovery; Link was still reeling as the Bokoblins set upon him. He was netted in the unbearable grip of pain, like a tangled web of barbed wire that only tightened the more he struggled; it had mounted almost beyond what the defenses of the mind would allow him to remain conscious for, and he clawed at the edges of a steep slope he was slowly sliding down. He felt now that he was simply watching himself in a dream, his awareness fading, and with it, the physical discomfort as well; his body and mind were readily accepting the release, not wanting to feel anything further, yet Link's hand desperately clutched at the hilt of the practice blade, even as the sword itself had been destroyed. He wasn't holding on for the sake of hope, but for comfort, the familiar feeling of a sword in his hand similar to the hand of another person, offering him their soothing support in his darkest hour.

Stubby, clawed hands lifted the beaten Skyloftian from the ground, pulling him up as far as his knees. Link himself was unaware of his position; he was lost to the fact that a dozen crimson devils had him by his arms, stretching him open and defenseless, while others yanked at his hair, pulling his head back and arching his neck at an angle that would be more than uncomfortable. A dreamlike trance smoothed the rough edges of every minuscule piece of sensory information, making it easier for Link to remain prisoner to the hoard, without any further struggle.

A quick, sharp, unforgiving sting of pain slashed against the blonde teen's delicate flesh and roused him from this deathly stupor. The defenseless Hero choked out a horrified but stifled scream. Held still and defenseless, Link felt some form of a blade gash his skin; it slowly dragged against him, flaring with excruciating pain, yet he couldn't pull away nor could he avoid what was already being done. The fresh wound, and the intolerable burn of it was one that could not be blotted out in the least, and however pointless it might have been, Link struggled with what fight he could muster from his battered frame, if only in the hopes of tightly pressing his hands to his neck, to the sudden rush of warmth and wetness, to cease its rapid escape.

Link's senses, his realization of what was happening, suddenly, were more clear and vivid than ever. The pain wasn't as agonizing as other injuries he'd sustained, but the terror that had erupted and engulfed his entire being was more than he could endure. Here, now, he faced his most perilous situation; they had _cut_ him. They had _slashed his throat_ and now held him motionless against his will, so he could do nothing but stare down as a puddle of crimson amassed just before his knees, on the ground, and fight to breathe without choking.

He flailed again slightly in their grasp, but they held him firmly and he was forced to still, closing his eyes to block out the gruesome vision of his escaping lifeblood as his entire frame trembled in terror and regret. He couldn't help but think about.. how unfair this was. After everything he'd done, to die like this, like some lowly animal without an ounce of dignity. ..nobody would ever even know what had happened to him. He would disappear without a trace, as though perhaps he'd never even existed at all.

The teen's fingers shook upon the hilt of the broken practice blade that he'd yet to allow from his grasp, its weight suddenly feeling heavier, which the blonde boy attributed to the weakness that was slowly engulfing him. Link's hand loosened on the destroyed weapon, until it was poised at the very tips of his fingers, at which point the teen looked down blearily, as though to watch it fall.

..but what Link found before him, when he opened his fading blue eyes, was the proud, gleaming silver of the Master Sword, stretched across the ground in front of him, straight up to where his fingers just barely clutched it. His blood dripped down steadily upon the blade, and the thick crimson followed the natural contours of the steel, caressing its finely polished finish in a way that was so alive, it was artful.

The teen couldn't believe it. He even blinked his heavy lids, thinking either the weapon would disappear, a fantastical illusion, or..perhaps Link would hear the soothing analytical reassurances of Fi's voice, insisting that she was here to aid him and that he wasn't alone.

What next occurred was difficult for even the young hero to comprehend. His eyes shimmered reflectively as the holy blade in his hand gleamed with magnificent light. His hand tightened possessively on the sword, not daring to let it escape from him, because even if death was imminent, somehow, it renewed his hope, his will. It gave him an unexplainable source of strength, and in one wild thrash, he freed himself from the Bokoblin's unsuspectingly loosened grasp.

Link fought with what little life was left in his mortally injured body, the perfect, majestic weapon he wielded bearing the weight of this entire war, easing the fight for the wounded Skyloftian. The feel of the sword melded into Link's hand and gracefully followed his movements as if it had made itself one with him, as if it were an extension of his very being. There was something about the balance of the craftsmanship, or the blade's mass, or even just the way it fit into Link's gloved palm, _something about the blade_ that made its use feel completely effortless, and brought about the very finest form of grace.

It almost seemed that all the carnage, for a moment, was nothing more than a dance between hundreds of bodies. Hundreds danced and danced, until all were exhausted and collapsed on the ground for rest.. all but one.

Panting choked gulps of air and blood, gasping, and coughing, Link staggered over to the wall of the cave. His body teetered toward the solid surface, his head heavy, his neck stiff, his wounds stinging painfully, and his entire frame ached, but he did not drop the sword. The teen's weight shifted from his legs to being half-supported by the roughened stone; there, with one hand pressed tightly against his sliced-open, profusely bleeding flesh, and the other digging the sharpened end of the sword into the earth to act as a crutch, Link slid himself helplessly down the wall, until he sat upon the ground, and waited for death.

Anything that had inhibited Link from feeling the full brunt of his wounds had faded from his system; he sat, bitterly aware of every injury he'd received, his body wracked with cold tremors, and growing clammy in a cold sweat, despite the smoldering temperature of the Eldin area. His lips gaped open as he fought to breathe, this desperation surely making him look like a suffocating fish out of water. Link's head fell back against the stone wall, his eyelids barely staying open while even his frenzied thoughts began to haze. In his mind, he wanted to tell himself to hold on, because maybe something would happen, and he would be saved.. But at the same time.. he wanted the pain to end, and.. he almost didn't care what it took to achieve relief.

The teen's blurred focus fell upon his gloved hand, the one that was clutching onto the sword at his side; Link's gloves and his fingers were coated in blood, without a single inch of unsullied skin apparent, and the teen felt he shivered extra at the gruesome appearance of his appendage. He was glad he didn't know what he looked like otherwise.

Then, the teen's eyes trailed down further, sparing one last glance at the blade that had become one with him in his time of need, and finally, _finally_, rid the Skyloftian of the Bokoblin menaces.

But Link found, as he observed, that the blood-soaked blade he'd clasped onto as his final resource for life was not the Master Sword at all, no matter how similar it had felt. The splattered crimson of Bokoblin blood, which was mixed and mingled with Link's own spilled plasma, traced this steel like thick blots of ink against the obsidian shine of the blade, seeming to fizzle until it all was of a water-like consistency, after which it caressed the blade as it dripped to the ground, repelled by the surface as if one were oil and the other water.

Visually, Link felt he could almost see the growth of the blade as it absorbed the iron content of the blood; he felt he could see the silvery edges sharpening themselves, not yet focusing on regrowth so much as the act of making the weapon more capable of drawing further blood.

And only now, as he was directly on the threshold of oblivion, did Link's mind clear enough to even question when it was that this sword had made its way into his hand; maybe the vile, wretched object had just willed itself into the teen's grasp, similarly to how it willed others to act upon their darkness, because.. the sword in his hand was Ghirahim's, and it had welcomed itself to becoming Link's ally in slaughter, drinking the blood that was its life source, so that it now dripped with gore.

As the last of the blood seeped into the blade, leaving the blackened steel gleaming, clean and dry, the sword trembled in Link's hand, the vibration surging up his arm and tingling in his palm. A faint light engulfed the weapon- a vibrant, dancing, orange flame, dulled only by the inky blackness of the steel; the sword shuddered in appeased ecstacy, a steady thump pounding from within the weapon and against Link's palm, like a heartbeat, so strong and alive that the teen could hear it in his ears, and he compared it to his own, which he felt slowing steadily with every passing second.

Then, in a flash, the reddish orange light, so much like wild, rebellious fire, jumped from the blade, breaking into tiny fragments that resembled shattered glass, which gleamed, threatening and sharp, until the fragments pieced themselves together.

And there, finally, a most foreboding and familiar, yet otherworldly and ethereal being stood before the dying Hero, dark eyes peering down into the fading light of Link's sapphire gaze, scrutinizing as he decisively took in the sight before him; his detested enemy, helpless, and moments away from his very last breath.

In this single second, the two simply regarded one another in peace and silence, inwardly pondering what the next moment in time was bound to hold for them both.

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/..tbc../

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[Link used to be the Goddess's Chosen Hero, and then he took an arrow to the knee. There, now nobody else has to say it.]


	8. Chapter 8

[Hello readers. This is just a quick note to point out a few things. You'll find that in this chapter, Link is still in possession of the Triforce. I'm aware that he doesn't keep it in the game, however, for my narrative purposes, in this story, he still has it.]

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/..It had been such a long while since Minkin left his house. The villagers had begun to worry if perhaps they had glorified him for his achievements to the point that they exhausted his heroic spirit, leaving him bitter in some way or another. Everybody was so terribly worried, thinking that the village was in peril without the charisma of its greatest hero; without the strength of Minkin, what could any of them do in crisis?

(This was a terrible habit of the human race; they always found somebody strong to rely on and they rode the strength of that one person until the power they'd depended on was diminished to nothing. This was exactly why Hylia had eventually left her created race of people behind- they didn't know how to rely on themselves. In her exhaustion, the goddess created a new realm for herself and left her people to their own devices.

But no sooner than the time in which human beings believed they had figured things out, a great disaster occurred. In quakes and fire, the ground split open, spilling forth the most vile beings the world could ever possibly know. Probably less than half of the human populace survived the initial chaos before regrouping; only those who could find strength within themselves had come this far.

But while the Hero Minkin refused to step outside his small cottage, and nobody else in the village had a clue as to what was wrong, one small, curious soul had noticed something else that seemed amiss.

The orphan Rubie had yet to cease in her nightly visits. Each night she stood across the dark alleyway from Minkin's home, peering in the direction of his one window. She hardly ever saw Minkin come to the window, or even witnessed the slightest flutter of the window shades; However, in the cold, still, silence of the earliest morning hours, if she listened closely enough, she could hear the soft, bitter sound of somebody weeping.

She swore, each night, the sound of a young boy's cries met her ears from the direction of Minkin's home../

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_Darkness-_ It was the one unfailing surrounding that anybody could remember before they lived, before they existed. Even for a sword spirit, it was just the same, though surely the circumstances of his creation had been vastly different from what birth must have been like for mortal creatures.

_Darkness_. It was quiet and it tightly, comfortably surrounded his state of being, his empty state of being. His life was forged of magic, his soul delicately woven by the divine hand of Hylia, and the miracle that was creation was laced carefully into the very atomic structure of the silvery steel that was a blade, a blade that had been made _for him_.

Ghirahim's first breath of life must have been simply an exhaled sigh for the goddess. He wished he could remember. What did it feel like? When that breath of air, heavy with enchantment, poured out of Hylia's bosom, and into him, was it sweet? Was it like a delicate, tender kiss? Could it have been so vile and as full of pretenses as that? Ghirahim wished he knew.

He barely remembered his 'infancy'. He was incapable of remembering, because he was a completely different being now than what he had been then. The only minute traces of recall that lingered in his mind were of his original self; an even, androgynous figure with a porcelain complexion, and a wise, yet melancholic expression. Yes, a sweet youth filled with child-like longing; with the purest love and affection, he offered himself to Hylia in loyalty and service, but.. she never once touched the sword that housed him. She never took it up and claimed it as her own.

Oh, how troublesome it was to be the spirit of a weapon created by the goddess, yet to not receive the blessing of being handled by the sweet divinity of her hand. How troublesome it was, having never felt the warm, holy light of her palm. How truly woeful and morose! He must have known then, even despite being born of Hylia's will, if she refused to handle the blade that housed his soul, he would not be blessed with her light! He would never be sanctified without at least one small moment of contact with Mother's blessed fingertips. She might have created him, but without her touch, he was nothing more than an 'average' weapon.

(He must have been so hilariously pathetic, longing for Hylia's caresses. Oh so piteous! Mommy didn't love you; how droll!)

What Ghirahim could remember was his first contact with the Goddess Sword; (Mother's chosen one! What a brutal slap in the face!) It was that sword that Hylia's hand claimed upon its first presentation to her, and it was that mercilessly sharp blade that she used to tear into Ghirahim's soul and leech from him more than half of what made him _who he was_, half of what made him a _living thing._

His soul was sliced apart by that sword, but even so.. for all of its sharpness, it still felt more like his lifeforce was being torn, ripped.. not cut. A cut was clean and precise. The excruciating pain, anguish, and utter shame of this moment felt eternally more terrible than anything so simple and clean and seemingly easy as one tiny cut. If anything, it was more like being pinned against a floor with a hundred needle-thin orifices, and being sucked through; strained, reconfigured, torn apart and stitched back together. He begrudgingly remembered this feeling, yes indeed. (Before it was all finished, he probably cried out and begged for Her Grace to have mercy, to stop, stop, stop... He'd never give her the pleasure of such a thing now. Then again.. his former self might have submitted to any pain that Hylia deemed necessary, so he couldn't be sure what actually happened. He just remembered the feeling.)

And when the pain finally ceased, the spirit vaguely recalled looking down at his hands, his _new hands_. All was blurry at first. The spirit's head was spinning, hardly recovered from the process of being flayed apart, and left _incomplete; _as well, the realization of what had occurred did not steady the spirit even slightly.

He looked down at his darkened skin, in what was considered his 'perfect' form, and he gaped, watching his own hands tremble before his eyes; one would think from his horrified reaction that he was looking down to witness said appendages being severed, but the scorched coloration of his complexion was comparably distressful. In that moment, he regarded the changed hue as one massive burn-scar that had enveloped him and that could never be rinsed away. (He wasn't even fully brown or gray or black, but instead a dappled, uneven rinse of all these colors in no particular pattern; this appearance actually _was_ a scarring of sorts, the result of having parts ripped out of him so rapidly that it left his outer tone irregular. He was left as patchy on the outside as he was on the inside.)

Ghirahim no longer possessed the ability to perceive or process thought or emotion as he had before his soul had been fractured, but he was perfectly aware that he'd just gone from a perfect being, to... the disposable by-products, a stitching of layers that Hylia had found 'unsatisfactory' to live within the sword she'd chosen to be her own. (It seemed better in at least one way; his previous self probably would have wept in self-pity while trying to hide his tears, so that mother wouldn't know he disapproved of her actions toward him.)

(..and it still remains impossible to describe the utter devastation of being used for parts. He'd been dissected, and everything Hylia had liked about him was removed, and used to create another, more 'preferable' being. It decimated Ghirahim's sanity, scarring him so deeply, he couldn't even think on it properly without making himself ill. It enraged him to such a degree that not even the blood of every mortal creature in existence could soothe him. Nothing made it better! Nothing!)

There was one other thing that was a bit blurred in Ghirahim's memory banks- what he'd said to Hylia when he'd recovered from the shock and trauma of what had just been done to him. He couldn't recall his exact words, or if they'd even made any sense (he hadn't had time to refine his vocabulary, being that he was a 'child', more or less), but he could remember that an entirely new tone of voice had torn from his throat, growling bitterly in pure, utter hatred. (Ghirahim sometimes thought that Hylia had seized him by the tongue for his words, and yanked the slippery muscle from his mouth until it was left stretched abnormally; he thought not, though, because she wouldn't dirty her hands on him, and because he knew she'd punished him in altering his appearance in another way.)

Hylia banished her fledgling creation for his one spiteful utterance, but before she tossed him away, she took it upon herself to leave him with one more reminder of the power she held so far above him. She blackened the outer finish of his blade so that it matched the flesh of his true form, disallowing him from even keeping the sheen of purity upon his sword, and she twisted the Triforce crest around, inverting it; this was so that while Ghirahim would not be allowed to forget who had given him life, he was to be constantly reminded that he had also fallen from grace. He was an outcast. He was unwanted and unnecessary.

Now, Ghirahim had found himself housed within that same unfeeling darkness as before. It was exactly as the time of his birth, cradling him it its weightless, endless vortex where he had no sense of self, nor could he feel or think or dream. He was perfectly content, suffocated by the abyss that consumed his very existence.

..and yet, a subtle prickling feeling came over him. Residing inside his blade, Ghirahim was physically nothing more than the sword itself, his spirit melded tightly into each little detail of the obsidian steel. However, in a time of such terrible weakness, with the last of his dark energy depleted, he couldn't even feel his weapon or sense his surroundings.

Then, the tiniest drop of strength began to replenish him, and it was suddenly like awakening in a dark room, his mind a disembodied consciousness, just barely aware enough to ponder what must have been going on outside his private world.

What was happening? The spirit's senses were returning; he could feel the tremble of soft, delicate fingers on his hilt, the faintest pulse beneath the tender skin which was pressed to the area of contact between them, and then something else he certainly wasn't used to anymore- his blade had tied itself empathically to another being, and Ghirahim could feel all the desperation and fear and sadness of whomever his sword had settled in with. This emotional connection, and the ability to even make such a union between another being and himself was almost an alien occurrence. It was so, because this was something shared between _a sword_ and his _master_, exclusively.

Not only had it been forever since Ghirahim shared this bond with Demise, but the spirit had also been proficient at disregarding the Demon King's emotions, because it was comparable to listening to the same song repeating for an eternity; Demise was a rather redundant being. For these reasons, Ghirahim had almost never had this sensory skill very highly stimulated.

However, this new wave of emotion that was rushing through Ghirahim was something entirely different; it jolted through him like a chaotic, ever-changing current. Every little detail was so utterly strong and vibrant, and it overwhelmed his mind, a buzzing frequency of static confusion. It was so damnably soft, and naive, and mortal, and its dire need of assistance tugged violently at the spirit's instinctive urges toward loyalty and duty, even though he knew nothing of having _any_ master _other_ than the Demon King. (And he had no qualms about rejecting any who'd made themselves a perspective master, because Ghirahim also had a certain streak of rebellion. He thought himself just too damn good for anybody, so he rarely let his sword remain with anybody but himself these days.)

The spirit within the sword was quivering from the surge of emotion feeding into him, but he was powerless to resist it, laying otherwise still inside the metallic confines that enclosed him. He was still weak and ill from injury, the terrible ache of his damaged core pounding like a weight upon him, a stab of pain that refused to cease. Yet, even so, the steady prickle he could feel on the surface of his sword slowly seeped into him, filling him with numb warmth that soothed away his discomfort.

The relief of his suffering was the sustenance of blood; Ghirahim, like an expert connoisseur of fine wine, recognized the individual tang feeding into him. It wasn't anything special, a low-grade, low-class demonic blood, bitter with anger and feral hatred, but distinct enough to be from a creature of slightly higher intelligence than a regular animal. (He would guess Bokoblin or Moblin, or both.) Regardless of how cheaply common it was, and how snobbishly the sword inwardly proclaimed his detest for this particular flavor, he was still accepting it welcomely, because it was filling the uncomfortable void inside him, the dried well of strength that the spirit could not stretch his legs without. (Alas, since he had been drained to complete emptiness, he was still exceptionally weak.. Really, he didn't have any choice, anyway. He could do nothing to reject the blood on his blade.)

_But_.. _wait_..

..It took Ghirahim a moment to notice through the grogginess that must have been effecting the purity of his tastes, but.. there was something else laced into the demonic blood that was entirely different. It was something so diverse that it almost could have been shrugged off as perhaps individual distinctions between a great demonic congregation, but no..

_Damn it._

He wished it hadn't been so muddled by the Bokoblin flavor, because Ghirahim was aware now that this absolutely could not belong to any demonic creature. It was lighter than the blood of dark creatures, meaning it was surely that of a goddess-created mortal; it had a certain delicateness about it, which indicated that it was from somebody of youth, yet it was also stained with a touch of flavor that was typically found in adults, a product of the mature mind and body, so this was undoubtably a teenager, and... yes, male, that was clear enough as well. Then, there were the more subtle alterations in taste that stemmed from this individual's emotional state, which seemed a mixture that Ghirahim was all-too-familiar with, on top of there being one last detail he could not mistake.. It had the slightest touch of sweet divinity to it, suggesting that this person was marked by Hylia in some subtle way.

_..Link._.

Momentarily, Ghirahim relaxed into the soft feeling of the Hero's blood flowing into him, savoring it as best as he could while attempting to hush the unexplainable anxiety of his thoughts. It wasn't very long before he was shivering and writhing again, teetering between pure pleasure and confused fury.

The Hero's flavor was more enticing and gratifying and _pleasurable_ than any other; there were multiple reasons as to why Ghirahim considered it more fine than other tastes, but half of the sheer nirvana it brought on happened to be because the spirit had practically teased himself with that horrid Sky Child. The spirit indulged in a little taste every now and again, but he steeled himself in resistance despite his wanton desires; Link was a distraction, a terrible, terrible distraction! Ghirahim knew he should have _killed_ him, but he _wanted_ him too much to even _dispose_ of him! Normally he had no problem taking what he wanted and finishing with it, and letting the bliss of bloodshed wash over him, but that damnable, little Link!

Ghirahim wanted him with such ferocity, he was honestly afraid to act on his own urges. He didn't want to _break_ the boy. He didn't want to _lose_ his _plaything_. The entire ordeal left him severely confused, and that got him venomously irritated.

The spirit stilled himself inside the sword, feeling suddenly breathless, even without being in his body; if he were in physical form, he likely wouldn't be able to resist exhaling a soft, breathy moan from this particular feeding. Even now, he could still taste and feel Link's blood pouring into him and it unsteadied his focus, his concentration. He was -trying- to approximate how much of the Hero's crimson had spattered out onto his blade, concerned as to -why- it had even occurred. Ghirahim hadn't intended to ever be nourished on blood again, he'd intended to have his existence ceased; suddenly sipping the lifeblood of the boy meant to end him was -not- a good sign.

He swore that when he finally could awaken from his blade, if he found some lowly demon standing over a dead Sky Child, he would obliterate it and any other creature that came near enough for him to unleash his fury.

'_Damnable Sky Child,' _Ghirahim was inwardly cursing, counting down the seconds until he was energized enough to pull free from the confines of his blade. He didn't exactly like the idea of emerging prematurely and exposing himself while still in a weakened state, but his nerves were driving him to maddening impatience and he just couldn't remain dormant any longer. Weak or not, the spirit had been fed enough to free himself, so he slid out from the concealment of his dark weapon.

The being from within the sword burst from his prison in raging orange light, which formed glassy fragments before it pieced together into the spirit's physical form; he felt the solidity of the ground suddenly beneath his feet, as if he'd been falling forever, and came now to a soft and graceful landing.

Immediately, Ghirahim's steely gaze fell upon what seemed like the tiniest bundle of dirtied, blood-stained green. His dark eyes looked down at the child who laid before him, on the ground just beyond arm's reach, and he gaped as if he'd never seen this particular human being in the entirety of his very existence. Even upon his first meeting with Link, he'd never seen the boy look so helpless and broken.

It certainly didn't inspire sympathy- If anything, if left the spirit wholly confounded, and he was wondering how this could have even come to pass. Link, who might have started out as a soft, fidgeting boy flailing a sword, had grown into a bold warrior. Ghirahim had witnessed the entire evolution, and he recalled the final fight between himself and the Hero before his master's resurrection; that fierce, determined fire in Link's lovely blue eyes, that hard, brutal focus- He'd become strong, for a human. So why was it that now he looked like some powerless whelp that had mistakenly stumbled into a dangerous area and been overtaken with ease?

The spirit took a deep breath, and with that breath, he spoke his first words of address to Link, shaking his head in disappointment. "Oh Sky Child," he exhaled, in a sigh.

-click-

The sound of one single footstep reverberated off the canyon walls at the mouth of the cave. It echoed like the patter of a thousand footfalls, yet the sword spirit walked no further than this single step, because upon this most simplistic movement, a sudden, unexplainable pain jolted through his frame like lightning, burning in the deepest depths of him and extending out to every last corner of his physical form, as if the very marrow of his framework had turned to fire.

The entity found himself bent forward like a wilting flower, against his will, as he was momentarily enslaved by his own suffering. His gloved hands clutched and clawed at his chest, from which the pain centralized and pulsed, like an echo passing through him and returning to the source, then falling silent. It slowly faded away, receding, but he remained bowed inward, his pale lips having parted in a hiss while his brow was furrowed in confused discomfort.

The endless, black inkwells of his eyes focused on the diamond-shaped opening about his chest, noting that the blessed blade had left a rather unattractive scar there, which he traced tentatively with a single gloved digit; it was tender, but even so, a healing wound couldn't be the cause of the torment that just flashed through him.

Raising his head, along with one hand which came to brush back the hair that draped over one half of his face, he let his stare fall once more upon Link. His eyes traced the length of black steel that proudly gleamed outward from the bloodied hand that clutched the sword's hilt; It looked pathetically similar to that wretched Master Sword now, yet at the same time, it hadn't lost any of its magnificence. It remained unscathed, though the child who grasped onto it for his very life laid helplessly against the red stone of the canyon wall, one hand on the sword while his other clutched at the profusely bleeding gash across his neck, though the blood still escaped rapidly from between his fingers. Link's lips gaped open as he panted breathlessly, gasping for air as his lifeblood left his body, yet his form was held in such a way, it made him appear resigned to his fate, or as though he intended to face death with bravery.

His hazed blue eyes spoke an entirely different story, however, as they looked directly at the bent spirit. They looked at him with confusion and fear, and with so much more that Ghirahim couldn't quite make out without going nearer.

And then, once more, there was a flash of unbearable pain; this time it heightened in intensity, so much so that it broke away at the spirit's prideful strength and he gave in to the weakness in his own knees and in his equilibrium, lowering to the ground with as much grace as he could manage. One hand held his upper body upright- the white of Ghirahim's gloved palm was stained immediately with red dust, but he couldn't be bothered with caring about his clothes at this very moment. He couldn't be bothered with how terribly dirty his glove would be as he clawed at the ground in sheer torment. His other hand, again, tightly pressed to his chest, pushed into him as though he were fighting to keep his own sternum from breaking open and spilling everything out from inside.

The agonizing shocks still centralized from the spirit's chest, from the jewel core that lay hidden beneath his breastbone in this form, the very source of his energy, his power, his _life._ He could identify from where it came this time around, because instead of only reverberating through his form once, and vanishing as last time, this time it did not cease. The highest peak of the suffering came with each new spasm, each time it pulsed from the deepest pit of his core, dying only slightly as it crawled outward toward his fingertips. He braced himself each time the pain faded, readying himself for the renewed wave that would come after.

Yes, Ghirahim could tell now what was happening. He spared a glance up at the fading Sky Child just beyond his reach; there was nothing the spirit could do about him now, and perhaps this was better.

The only explanation was that Ghirahim's central core had taken too much damage at once. (He'd been stabbed in his chest more times recently than he could handle.) The jewel that resided beneath the bone of his chest could heal with time, just as the rest of his body, but it could only take so much extended punishment until it shattered completely and could no longer mend itself.

This wouldn't kill Ghirahim, per se, but it would prevent him from re-energizing himself, and effectively banish his spirit into the blade permanently, forcing him into an endless hibernation.

Again, the pain heightened in intensity, raging inside him and renewing itself more quickly, until it hardly faded at all before it pulsed from his chest again and again. It would be over soon, he could feel it. The pain would likely keep mounting until it was fully constant; this was the feeling of tiny, hair-thin cracks slowly spreading through his jewel-core, and once the accursed agony was at its climax, the core would burst, and it all would finally end.. forever.

The spirit bit down upon his lip, stifling a groan of pain he could feel wanting to tear from his throat, but he refused to utter a single cry. He wouldn't. Even now he was too good for that. He wasn't like the little failed hero, he wouldn't pity himself, not even as he endured the most tormenting pain! Never! Never! Never!

He could handle this. He could. He wanted it to be over quickly, but he could handle it until it was.

And as if to spite him, the pain grew even more intense, flaring in every inch of him in a way he could not describe, aside from perhaps being slowly shred apart, pieced back together, and repeating this endlessly in a cycle. His chest dipped further down now with every beat of his core, every ripple of torment, until he was fully folded against his knees, pressed into the ground as if a massive weight rested on his back, or as though he were a butterfly with pinned wings.

'_Damn that Sky Child for failing,' _he thought. The spirit wouldn't be suffering like this, if not for Link. If not for Link, Ghirahim's plans would have succeeded and his entire world would be perfectly peachy right about now, but because of that worthless little wretch... This was what he received. More pain and suffering.. As if he'd not known enough in his lengthy lifetime.

But.. at the very least.. He could also be glad that he would finally cease to be, physically. Being forced to sleep forever inside a tiny prison was better than having to face the vast expanse of time that laid before the spirit, should he have to live any longer without purpose. Spending any more time with nobody but himself and his thoughts.. He'd go insane. (If he hadn't already... He didn't think he had _quite yet_, but he must have been close to that borderline.)

Finally, the thumping pain grew to the point that it was ceaseless and constant. Yes. It was horrible, more than any weaker creature could ever hope to endure, but the spirit maintained his silent strength, refusing to utter a sound. In his mind, he bid that it end, swiftly. He bid that he perish, forever. He openly welcomed his own destruction.

But then something even more profound jolted the spirit, again, like another surge of electricity, if of a different sort. He was weakened from the pain he'd been fighting his way through, so this new sensation struck him utterly breathless, and he clenched his hand in the dirt even more tightly, a sharp gasp finally being forced from him. This new feeling was a rush of warmth after being bathed in ice, or the glare of sunlight after a life shrouded in darkness; the intensity of it overwhelmed the broken entity's already stretched senses.

A powerful shiver raced up the sword spirit's spine, tingling in the back of his skull, and gathering in his chest, his middle, and everywhere else that could feel or experience any kind of sensation, but now...it was no longer painful. It was pleasurable. It was almost too pleasurable to even stand. (And yet..Ghirahim found himself inwardly begging for more of it, he didn't care what it was.)

A feeling of warmth engulfed him, until he could feel his power slowly returning once again. He was aghast at what this could possibly be, this perfect ecstasy and yet he still couldn't care what it was, so long as it never, ever, ever stopped.

Curiously, he again lifted the single dark eye that was visible from beneath the slightly disheveled curtain of white hair, looking upon the bloody hand that clutched his blade. His sword was softly glowing with luminous pleasure, and the spirit could feel a smirk creeping over his lips. His mind had turned on itself, going giddy in pleasure as the first wave died off. He darkly chuckled, a tingling sensation spreading through his silvery skin, just watching the Goddess's poor, tormented, dying Hero, and the blood spattered hand holding his sword, fresh from battle.

Within seconds the pulsing feeling once again erupted through Ghirahim's frame, and he lurched further forward, unable to prevent himself from doing so, abdomen pressed into his knees, his back arched inward, his head falling backward. His toes curled at the feeling, and he now bit down on the tip of his tongue to restrain what he was sure would be a delighted moan.

But he knew couldn't control himself through very much of this. It stamped him down helplessly, yet he hoped it never ended. He hoped he could writhe himself to death, lost in this perfect feeling, whatever it was, whatever had caused it... By the Goddess, he absolutely didn't care!

When this particular wave did fade away, though, Ghirahim was able to vaguely process a certain amount of innocent curiosity, and he could think of no reason to remain ignorant about this downright alien occurrence. (Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He'd never felt anything, _-anything-_, so _good_.)

This is when, after staring blindly for however long, he noticed the glimmering golden light softly radiating from the hand rested upon his sword's hilt. The realization at last occurred to the spirit- this light was the holy energy of the Triforce making itself known, its pure, divine glory indestructible and flaring up now of its own accord, to preserve the life of the one who held it.

It was the divine power of this holy artifact, and its revitalizing energy pulsing through Ghirahim's sword; the spirit could feel it racing into him, through him. (He'd never gotten the chance to feel this kind of power, not even in Demise's hand, no matter how he craved it.) This was the feeling of Link's hand, of it using him, claiming him, and of his blade resigning itself to Link's control, accepting Link's hand as if it were the hand of his master. Just the same, Link's hand had accepted the blade, and was now unintentionally returning Ghirahim's strength. He was replenishing the weapon's power, a weapon which was now _his own_, and was locked in a symbiotic relationship that neither party had truly consented to, and yet it was so perfect, despite all the terrible irony.

The sword, in its own weakness and sensing the peril of it's spirit, had drawn upon the power of its new Master. Or, perhaps Link had unconsciously used his power to fully replenish Ghirahim, calling for help in his own time of peril. It was such a perfectly laced pattern, each creature complimenting and aiding the other, needing one another. They were as gears in a machine, now working together without regard as to whether they desired one another or not.

Ghirahim's tiny bemused smirk intensified so that now a full smile tugged at his pale lips, though it was no less menacing. Feeling energized enough to fluidly raise himself from the ground, he came to his feet and he dusted the reddish earth from his lovely white clothing. The feeling of the Triforce's energy racing through him had given him life anew. It was something new and wonderful, almost that of a complete rebirth.

It was truly amusing, honestly- to think that he, Ghirahim, could be spared by the power of the Goddesses so far above him. It was so surreal; it seemed so much like some mistake that was never meant to occur, and yet it was some sort of terribly wicked luck of his dark fate. Now, as he stood filled to overflowing with the power of the holiest deities in all the universe, he had indeed begun a new life, or at least a new chapter; he had this strange, inconceivable notion that this would alter the course of his life entirely from what it once was... but that was just a passing whimsy that faded from his thoughts and passed him by.

Here, Ghirahim, being the devious creature that he was, in studying his own regal weapon in the hands of the Goddess's Hero, came to wonder something delicious... If his weapon was bound to be a cause for failure without end.. what would occur should he allow himself to be used by the Goddess's Hero..? Would this not bring endless peril down onto the light side? It seemed rather beneath him, and yet.. he couldn't help but think it to be a potentially pleasurable pursuit. It might have made living interesting for just a bit longer.. And, even more deliciously, he could bask in the delightful feeling of the Triforce's power until the time came for him to tear the ceaseless babble of righteousness from Link's mouth.

At last, the spirit was able to approach Link. The boy was weak but it was apparent that he still clung to some shred of awareness, because his tormented blue gaze carefully followed the image of the spirit, despite how quickly the life was fading from him. The Hero's face had fallen to a deathly pallor, his lips almost as porcelain pale as Ghirahim's own, save for the uneven rouging of blood, and a blueish tinge had collected at the thin, tender corners of the boy's eyes.

The spirit lowered himself down to a crouch before Link, to observe the helplessness of the poor little Sky Child; Ghirahim's ever-erratic emotional state was flip-flopping uncontrollably, and he cursed himself for his underlying eccentric nature, as well as the sky brat for the maddening effect he had over him.

The white material of the spirit's gloves fragmented and dissipated, bringing his naked hands into view as he carefully reached out to the broken boy.

Link immediately flinched away from the spirit's touch, but it was not retracted; one hand came to rest upon the cool skin of Link's cheek, while the spirit smeared the blood upon Link's lips in a single delicate movement with his thumb. The very tip of the Ghirahim's tongue slithered out, tracing unconsciously along his own lips as his dark eyes gaped at the dying child.

With Link having forged the bond of ownership over Ghirahim's blade, and with Link's own blood rushing in the spirit's veins, Ghirahim had a new level of perception concerning Link. He could hear and feel the slow pace of the child's heart, the rhythmically slow pace hypnotizing and lulling, though it also teased the spirit's senses in its refusal to halt. Link's will to live was still so strong, and it both infuriated the spirit and caused the subtle traces of a smile to play across his pale lips. The bond was of little relevance concerning the spirit's opinion of the boy. To Ghirahim, Link was still a desirable enemy, one who now was teetering on the brink of death, and that closeness to finish tingled beneath Ghirahim's skin, a tormenting pleasure that he fought to resist.

At the same time, the spirit still felt a touch of fury at what he'd emerged to find, and he planned to make that much perfectly clear. In a sweetly sultry tone, he addressed the dying child, enunciating his words slowly, so to make sure that Link's desperate and panicked mind caught onto them. "You realize how very offensive this is to me, right boy?"

Ghirahim tightly grasped Link's chin in his hand, looking into the helpless, fearful sapphire eyes with a hardened, stern glare of his own. "You were a nuisance to me that I was helpless to deter. You put yourself in my path time and time again, bringing disorder to my carefully laid plans, and you unflinchingly succeeded against everything I threw at you. You even managed to battle me into defeat, as well as my master... yet now you fail against a lowly tribe of Bokoblin?"

As he spoke, his words eventually became an offended hiss; it was as if hearing himself utter what had already been in his mind drove him into deeper fury, and in blind rage, he tore the hand from Link's face, and lifted it to strike the boy in utter insult. However, just before his open palm could smack mercilessly against the helpless teen, the spirit stopped himself short, the very wind from the near-strike rustling strands of the boy's blonde hair. The raised appendage hovered here for only a second, and instead, was finally brought to rest upon the stony wall behind the teen, at which point, the spirit drew himself ever nearer to his beloved and hated enemy, and he whispered softly and spitefully, his lips lightly brushing against the delicate shell of the teen's ear.

"..I should let you die here, like the worthless nothing that you are. Perhaps now you can see the truth of yourself. Now you can see yourself the way I've seen you from the very beginning."

The spirit pulled away ever so slightly, just enough so that he could look Link in the face, and let the fallen hero see the menacing smile that had upturned Ghirahim's lips, and how it was accompanied by a mischievous twinkle in the lightless depths of his cold, dark eyes.

At the very same time, Ghirahim studied the Hero's lovely, dying, blue pools again now that he was nearer; how very delightful they were as the light faded from within, and the vibrancy of concentrated thought and feeling began to disappear. The boy was in his final moments. His pale eyelids were becoming heavy- Ghirahim could see that much. The blue of the young Skyloftian's irises could barely be held in a straightened gaze any longer, threatening to roll back in his head, into permanent darkness.

But Link still fought to maintain eye contact, even as his vision had begun to distort. The teen perhaps couldn't truly see anything any longer, nor could he speak in response to anything Ghirahim so mockingly uttered to him. However, the last fragment of the fallen Hero's emotions glimmered clearly in the watery depths as he stubbornly stared. The spirit looked upon the broken boy's pleading eyes as they glassed over with terrified tears, just as all pathetic mortals, silently screaming in fear of death, in panic over their end; even despite the lack of words, Ghirahim still perceived and understood his enemy's shameful resignation to quietly begging for his help.

(It was both disgusting and delicious at the same time; Ghirahim could amuse himself for the rest of time, just remembering this pitiful look in the helpless Hero's eyes, were he to allow the boy to die.. But then there was that one troublesome flaw in this plan- Ghirahim hadn't been able to let this little whelp die from the start. It wasn't in him to allow that to occur, especially not when he had.. _Other plans_.)

With a flustered sigh, Ghirahim snapped his uncovered fingers, summoning a flurry of diamond-fragments from nowhere, and in his hand materialized a small, glass bottle, which housed a faded blue light that had fallen limply to the bottom of the container. He spared the bottle a mildly observant glance, 'hhm'ing' to himself in annoyance as he lightly shook the glass prison, and mercilessly quaked the weakened fairy within.

The small creature's wings still fluttered as she was disturbed, so the spirit uncorked the bottle, releasing the luminous sprite from within. (He couldn't recall how long he'd kept this one imprisoned, and tucked away in the dark shelf-space of his inter-dimensional inventory. The years of isolation had very nearly broken the tiny creature's spirit.) As the fairy fluttered free from the glass confinement, her movements were utterly sluggish, making it rather easy for the spirit to grab her by one wing, in order to keep her from immediately approaching the wounded Skyloftian she'd been meant for. He held her out, away from Link, as if she were some filthy plague that needed to be kept away.

"Wait!," the spirit hissed in annoyance, his dark eyes fixated on the way Link's gloved hand slowly slid away from his wounded neck, unable to be held up any longer, though the boy still clung to consciousness, just barely, as if by a most fragile thread.

Ghirahim studied the clean slice across the boy's thin, delicate flesh. He eyed the lovely, seemingly endless flow of scarlet, hardly realizing that he was closing the distance between himself and Link, until the moment that his lips were so close to being painted red with the Hero's blood. The spirit took a deep breath, the coppery scent of that sweet, forbidden blood an irresistible stimulation for his senses, yet he was ever so delicate as he indulged himself for one single instant. With the most gentle of touches, the spirit's long tongue slithered out from his mouth, the tip resting gingerly against Link's skin, and tracing the cut carefully, lapping at the blood, and stealing one last taste of it.

A soft moan quietly purred from the spirit, but he withdrew himself, knowing that any further hesitation would be the death of this foolish child, and so he allowed the fairy to slip from his grasp.

It was almost painful for Ghirahim to watch as the tiny light flitted about, mending the gash in his most despised enemy's neck; all of his instincts told him to let the Sky Child die, yet he refused to let this happen. As a means of distraction, while the sprite seemed occupied with healing the teen's neck, her activity slow and weakened from extended captivity, Ghirahim's dark eyes flickered down to the blood stain at Link's shoulder, where the green of the teen's tunic had been dyed a deep reddish black. From the center of the oval-shaped stain, the smallest splinter still protruded, making it obvious that something was still lodged in the wound.

Careful fingers traced the wound, examining it enough to confirm that there was indeed something piercing the teen's flesh, unfortunately. Ghirahim was practiced in the art of magic, but his skills extended solely toward combat- he knew nothing of healing, or anything relatively akin. He was aware, however, that the fairy wouldn't be able to fully heal any injury such as this one, not so long as the cause of the wound still lingered inside; quickly, he focused upon the splinter of arrow that remained inside the wound. He -was- capable of using magic to move objects, similar in form to telekinesis, and he would be able to help in fixing this particular injury.

As Ghirahim's magic was focused upon the splintered arrow encased in Link's bleeding shoulder, the area of penetration began to lightly glimmer with orange light, the aura of the spirit's energy. The sword spirit lifted his hand, commanding the pull of his magic with expert fingers, and as he sharply gestured back with his hand, the shard of arrow ripped from the wound with a sickeningly slick noise, coming to hover in air, dripping with blood.

When the arrow tore from his shoulder, Link twisted his body, squirming at the suddenly intensified pain as a soft groan escaped from him, even despite the weakness of his voice. He stilled almost instantly as the fairy next took care of the freshly bleeding wound, sealing it up with her divine magic.

The teen laid still, panting, gasping, and in more pain than he'd ever thought was possible to endure. He could feel himself teetering on the edge of unconsciousness and even though he was aware of his wounds being healed, he'd also lost so much blood that he couldn't help but think it would be a fatal mistake to allow himself to fall asleep. He clung to the waking world with all the strength he could muster. (Which wasn't any kind of physical strength, because every last bit of that was depleted. This was pure, raw willpower.)

Link could only hold his gaze straight ahead, his fading eyes given no other choice but to peer upon and watch the entity before him as Ghirahim held the gored shard of arrow near his pale lips with magic, and he lapped at it with just enough length of tongue to make it apparent that the muscle was abnormal. That slimy appendage; the hue of it was just a tinge more violet than the coloration of a normal human being's tongue. Link noticed this minor detail as it curled slightly around the arrowhead that had been lodged in the teen's shoulder, and it slowly traced the object, cleaning it of the wet, crimson coating.

Yet as distracting as this macabre vision was for the drained hero, his focus could not be pried from his pain, nor did he have the strength to keep himself from succumbing to the final result of his blood loss; as his heavy lids and yellow lashes began to lower, the tears of lonely terror were pushed from where they had collected and softly caressed the cool skin of his cheeks.

He was sure that he would die here.

The teen's head slowly lolled to one side, his broken frame following the shift. As he began to fall over, he had yet to fully drift off into the darkness, and he apprehended that his body's clash with the dirt beneath him would be his final sensation. However, the last thing the boy felt was his head falling into the soft curve of a palm, which pressed skin-to-skin against his cheek, and supported his weight, so to keep him from toppling.

..to keep him from falling.

:: ::

...tbc...

::


	9. Chapter 9

_Hello readers. Sorry again for the slow progress of these chapters, but please be sure that you go and like The Fabulous Lord Ghirahim on Facebook. Seriously. He is on it all the time._

_www . facebook . com / pages / Ghirahim-means-srs-bsns / 124660167665160_

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The house was dark and dismal. Hardly anything had been shifted around for weeks, and so everything lay forgotten beneath a gray blanket of dust. Clothes had been tossed onto the floor and the cupboard was empty, not that the occupant of the house had sustenance on his mind at all.

Minkin hadn't eaten for days; his once brawny frame had narrowed in the middle, and his cheeks had sunken. He had come close to doing quite a lot of an act that resembled sleep; it was more that he'd succumbed to exhaustion of the mind as he sat upright, all alone, intent on waiting for that voice to speak to him again. Dark circles developed along the thin skin beneath his earth-tone eyes and as his grasp on consciousness slipped away, his lids would fall shut and he'd pass into a restless, uncomfortable sleep, his senses still partially aware of his surroundings. His mind slipped away from the waking world, filling his head with various conversations long past and a few that had never been.

He could always hear his brother's voice. The last conversation between himself and his sibling rang through his troubled subconscious and he bitterly cursed himself for how careless and aloof he'd been when last his brother was alive before him. He imagined his parents' voices, scolding him for not looking out for his younger sibling and for not protecting him, and for turning into a worthless head-case, isolated from the world. Surely, at times when Minkin fell into these tormented states of half-sleep and didn't wake up after a few minutes, he'd shed tears in his sleep, filled with regret and self-loathing.

Minkin had been so strong through his parents' deaths. He'd been the one to hold his sibling's head above water and he'd consoled his brother with claims that death was not an ending. He was so full of strength then, so wise. So why was it that he couldn't move on now? Why was it that he was helplessly bound by his own emotional torment? Where had all these horrible, dark, maddening emotions bubble up from and why couldn't he move on with his life? Why hadn't his thirst for blood in revenge been sated? Why?

What had he become? What made him devolve into something so utterly pathetic?

'...Wake up...'

The poor, deteriorating man roused from his half-sleep, half-trance when at last he heard that voice, the voice he'd been waiting for. It excited him at the same time that it startled him; he both wanted to know that it was not merely in his head, while at the same time, he feared what else it could possibly be. Perhaps he truly was losing his mind, but even if this was the result of trauma and insanity, if it offered him the answers to his questions, he didn't care anymore!

'..There are others that are to blame..,' came the dull, whispering echo of the mysterious voice. It always uttered the same ominous words, and Minkin had finally grasped what it was trying to explain, if only it would just tell him who the others were that it spoke of!

"Who?," Minkin blurted out loudly, desperate. "Who?"

"..Others deserve to be punished," the voice secretively whispered.

"Who, damn it?," the man called out, enraged. His temper had become something volatile since his brother died, which was another reason he'd isolated himself from the world, "Who deserves to be punished?"

This time, as Minkin stood screaming in what seemed like a state of madness, the voice finally answered his calls; from across the room, the massive, ebony sword radiated a soft, orange light, like the dull glow of embers from a fire that had burned itself out. This hellish light had the mortal man gaping in shock, a shiver racing down his spine as he stared in disbelief. For all his pleading to the voice, somewhere deep inside, he'd never expected an answer.

Before the human's very eyes, the light jumped from the blade, luminous fragments twisting and twirling in air as they collected directly in front of Minkin, coming together to form a humanoid figure.

The man fell back in shock and utter disbelief, even though his eyes were laid plainly upon an otherworldly being that had finally, finally revealed himself. "W-What are you?," Minkin growled, both shaken and angry at this mysterious creature that had tormented him for weeks, "Some sort of demon?"

A smiled pulled across the pale lips of the ethereal being standing before the mortal man. The soft, white of this being's clothes seemed to glow through the darkness, defining his every graceful movement, making them almost perfectly visible. He placed his hand to his chest, before dipping his upper body in a soft bow of introduction. "I'm the spirit who dwells within the sword you've been using all this time. I'm the one who has been guiding you. I'm the one who made you the great hero that you are."

As the entity straightened him with refined grace, he strode over toward the fallen human, his feet carrying him with such steady, fluid elegance that he appeared to float. With a few soft patters of his feet against the wooden floor, he came to crouch down in front of the human who had been using his blade all this time. "..and because you've wielded my sword for so long, all this time, I've heard your thoughts, I've sensed your feelings, and I know that you're confused."

Listening intently, though incredibly jarred in knowing that this entity had been inside his head, picking through his thoughts, Minkin shook his head, whispering to himself, "Goddess Hylia, tell me I'm imagining this.."

The luminous entity sharply reached out and grasped Minkin by the chin, forcing his face forward in a reprimanding movement. The sword's dark eyes peered down, giving the human a hard stare. "You are not imagining this... and if at any point you see Hylia, and she has come to aid you in any way, _-that-_ will be when you've finally lost it, and you've succumbed to the cruelest hallucinations."

"What do you want, demon?," Minkin hissed as he lurched himself free from the spirit's grasp.

A smile of amusement tugged at the corners of the entity's pale lips before he explained, "..as I said, I know that you're confused. Even though you've killed every monster that has crossed your path, you still don't feel that your brother has been avenged. You know that surely you must have destroyed the particular demon responsible for his death by now, yet still you lust for blood. There is a void which you know has yet to be filled, but you just can't figure out why."

"..and you can tell me?," Minkin scoffed in disbelief, his faith having yet to be earned. "You can answer my own private questions when I myself cannot?"

Even still, the spirit maintained his poised smile and bowed his head in a refined nod, his pristine, white hair falling against his face neatly, every strand in perfect order. "I can," he spoke matter-of-factly, "I can because I am not a mortal creature and I understand things with a much greater depth of comprehension. I can because this is what I was created to do."

In poisonous affection, a white-gloved hand reached out sympathetically to the fallen man, caressing his cheek as though the spirit were consoling a misguided, confused child, "..to assist my Master in his goals. To lend him both my physical strength and a voice of logic and reason. That was the purpose of my creation... But until now, I don't think you've been ready to accept the answer to your own question. In fact, it may still be early yet, and maybe that is why you couldn't come to this conclusion on your own. It will be.. Difficult for you."

Minkin was trembling with nervousness beneath the spirit's hand, but his body was also shaking in excitement, at potentially having his question answered finally, _finally_. The man hardened himself as he shook his head, denying the claim that he wasn't ready. "Tell me," he insisted in a stern tone, "What must I do to put this all behind me? I want to feel as though my brother has been avenged. I need to know."

However, the spirit only shook his head, looking down on Minkin with pity as he cooed sadly, "Your brother was a soldier, Minkin. They die left and right. Death of any warrior is never a shock to anyone. Nobody cares. They accept that it is simply inevitable."

Minkin said nothing; he narrowed his eyes in mounting rage, his chest inflating with a deep breath, as if he were fighting to maintain his cool.

The ethereal entity shrugged, lifting his upturned hands in a nonchalant gesture. "Nobody cares that he is dead," he explained, "Nobody cares that you are suffering, and, if anything... people are glad that your little brother died."

"..what?," Minkin quietly breathed his question in honest disbelief. People were.._glad?_

"Come now!," the spirit chuckled to himself, then continued, "..you've known this all along, you've just tried to push it from your mind. Why else would you have secluded yourself like this? This village? It's full of people who think of you as a fantastic hero. You're Minkin, the Hero who has slain more monsters than every other soldier in town combined. But what led you to this greatness? Vengeance. It was your hatred for all these monsters that made you such a wonderful protector. It was your brother's death that made you the Hero of this town... if your brother hadn't died, then these people wouldn't be living their carefree lives, Minkin."

With each word the sword-spirit uttered, a great, vast, bottomless rift opened further in Minkin's tattered heart, reflecting itself in a most distant look, deep in the man's widened eyes. His breathing slowly grew rapid and erratic, this epiphany, just as the spirit said, almost far, _far_ too much for his delicate mortal mind to endure... and yet, the creature before Minkin did not stop. No, he continued.

"...They're glad he's dead. They're glad for the atrocities that occurred, glad because it made you stronger, and now they lean on your strength. They don't care that somebody else had to die and they don't care that you're suffering. All any of them care about are themselves... do you see now?"

Minkin did not respond. Not yet. He couldn't. He sat in silence, letting the words of the spirit sink in. He went over them in his mind, weighing their value, feeling them out, searching them for any flaw, any crack, yet.. he found none.

As the man refused to speak up, the spirit simply smiled to himself, nodding his head as if he had served his purpose and was now satisfied; he gracefully straightened, standing upright, before his form broke into luminous fragments which were absorbed back into the sword, leaving Minkin alone to simmer in the harsh facts of this new reality he'd been made aware of.

The man had no idea how much time passed before he finally found his voice, speaking to regard what he'd been told, responding to it.

"You're right... You're absolutely right."

:: ::

_Darkness._ It was every journey's beginning and ending, regardless of whom you asked. From darkness, every soul was created, and it was that same darkness that consumed those souls at the end of any lifetime. This darkness was unfeeling and it was indiscriminate; it gave life as easily as it ended life and it cared not for the details in between, regardless of whether they were minute or extraordinary.

But darkness could also interrupt one's lifetime somewhere in between, like an intermission to a performance, as if people's lives were scripts of fiction. The darkness could tear a person's painted mask from their face before the performance ended or it could choose to send its adored puppets out for an encore once the glare of the stage lights flickered back to life.

And just as one puppet was thrust out of the consuming darkness, he pulled another along for the encore, as if the threads of their movements had become tangled and now they could no longer move independently. They were bound by fate. Forever.

A soft, breathy groan. This was the quiet sound of discomfort as the young hero stretched like a Remlit, only to find that his muscles were as sore as ever. A sigh followed- Constant aches and pains were practically normal for him now. It almost made him believe that he'd been sleeping for a very long while, as deeply as ever, his mind pervaded by imaginative nightmares of that creature he simply couldn't get out of his head, and he'd only won his fight against the Demon King just the day before.

Link was happy to greet the morning, maybe prop open his window to enjoy the sweet, pure Skyloft air, then entangle himself in his sheets and doze off again, catnapping a few more hours away; but as his lids slowly revealed the deep, vivid blue of his eyes from beneath, he found himself immediately confounded by the ceiling above him. This was not the ceiling of his room in the Academy, but a low, covered shelter comprised of sticks and straw and probably some mud as well.

He blinked, confused and not even fully awake, his mind having yet to recall the events prior to this moment. The unfamiliar surroundings quickly roused him, and his head turned to one side to note that the walls were built in the same fashion as the roof; this was not his room, but what appeared to be a Bokoblin hut, and the air was heavy with the scent of smoke and soot.

In a flash, the recollection of the battle against the Bokoblins in the cave struck the Hero, every vivid sensation passing through him in harsh reminder, as well as all the panic in sudden remembrance that his life had come so close to being ended. For a moment he even wondered.. had he _actually_ died?

The young adventurer's eyes went wide in terrible apprehension, and he swallowed nervously as if to test how the previously injured column if his neck felt. Remarkably, there was no pain to speak of, but his hand still raised tentatively to allow his fingertips to smooth over the tender flesh. He'd expected the find a horrifying, grotesque slash that he'd certainly withdraw his hand immediately from, and yet.. it was healed.

A lot of the details following the struggle were fuzzy, but Link certainly didn't plan on taking his present safety for granted. He could already tell that he was still somewhere in Eldin province, if the stink of fire was any indication, and that realization truly didn't bode well for him at a time of vulnerability.

Upon sitting up, the ragged quilt that had been pulled over the teen's lithe frame was pushed away, and he noticed rather immediately that he was missing quite a few articles of clothing. His chainmaile, his shirt, his tunic, his gloves, even his hat- all removed. This turn of events, while not terribly surprising, still drew an embarrassed gasp from the blonde male, knowing that somebody else had undressed him as he lay unconscious. Another curious detail which Link noticed as he observed his naked torso and uncovered arms- the vile mess of blood that had coated every inch of him amidst his previous struggle had been washed away. If not for the questionable details of this entire ordeal, a faint blush might have made itself easily apparent against the unhealthy pallor of the boy's cheeks. He found himself, instead, rather grateful, and just made the best of it without complaint.

The teen's gaze trailed over beside the mattress. The bedding crinkled and crunched with his movement as he placed his legs over the side. (It was noisy, because it was just a bed of stitched leather, stuffed with straw or something similar-Bokoblin crafting.) Link realized, to his great relief, that his missing articles had been left beside the bed, along with his packed gear, shield, and...

..a sheath that laid innocently alongside the pile, as if it were just another item that belonged in the inventory, a sheath that clearly contained the dark sword Link had been sent to destroy. It was still there, as though it had never even been touched.

..though now Link remembered that the sword had, indeed, been touched, and that the spirit from within had revealed himself just as the teen was sure he was about to die.

That was right- It was Ghirahim who'd seen to aiding Link, and who'd resourcefully found the means to heal the Hero's otherwise fatal injuries. But why?

Link threw on his clothes with some degree of haste. He was clueless as to what it even meant that his enemy had spared his life or that the sword was still miraculously in his possession. (The teen didn't even take note that his clothes had been rinsed of blood as well.) The blonde male's best assumption was that Ghirahim still required assistance in his destruction, but really, could the spirit not handle it himself?

(Link was aware from the History of Skyloft that self-destruction was something living things were very capable of. He'd never witnessed such an event, but banishments and honor-jumps had occurred in Skyloft; banishment was normally used as a punishment for only the most dreadful crimes, but the occasional suicide happened. It always involved a distraught person seeking to punish themselves for something unthinkable, at which point they would jump off the floating island and disappear beneath the clouds, presumably falling to their death when their body collided with the surface land below.)

The teen had pulled his forest-green tunic over his head and was busily fastening his belt into place when he decided to rummage through his adventure pouch, just to make sure nothing had mysteriously went missing. Luckily enough, his observant fingertips located each item he expected to have on his person; however, his hand was laid upon something else that he was unsure of and he curiously drew it out from the leather pouch.

What Link soon found resting in his palm was a glass bottle, one that he couldn't recall having acquired at any point in time. The bottle itself was smaller than his own, and instead of being plainly rounded, it was irregularly shaped, and there were tiny bubbles captured inside the smooth surface. As well, while Link had used his last potion in Skyloft, this bottle was not empty; contained within was a thick potion of a gel-like consistency, and while it was familiar in its red coloration, the shade itself seemed a bit darker than usual.

..then, was this a heart potion or something else? A gloved hand easily uncorked the bottle and Link cautiously inhaled the fragrance of the potion- surprisingly, it didn't smell half as bad as the concoctions that Bertie cooked up. In wary curiosity, the teen placed the cool glass to his lips and turned it up just enough for the smallest of sips to be captured at the tip of his tongue; the liquid fizzed in his mouth, bubbling atop his tongue in a way that tickled his nose. He hadn't expected that in the least!

However, despite the perceivably uncharacteristic reaction of the crimson liquid, it honestly had a much more likable flavor than Bertie's heart potions as well. The young Skyloftian, though he had been resting, still felt terribly weak from the blood loss he'd suffered and his body ached all over; it might have been a bit foolish of him to trust the potion, given the lack of knowledge he had concerning where it came from, but he couldn't afford to not take it in the case that it would return some of his strength. He would gamble this time, he just hoped his luck was improving.

The teen turned up the bottle so that the sticky fluid flowed from the glass confines and into his mouth. It was impossibly sticky, which made the flavor unavoidable, and though there was a bitter tang to it, the dark red potion also was infused with a heavy sweetness, which made it tolerable as it fizzed and tingled all the way down the blonde boy's throat.

It probably shouldn't have seemed so miraculous since Link had gulped down many a bitter potion during his dangerous adventures, but the boy was astounded by how quickly this particular one began to work. He was forced to hold the bottle upturned for an extended period, as the last dribbles of the thick, sticky liquid crept from the bottle at a snail's pace; even so, the amount of potion that Link had swallowed began to work before he even lowered the bottle from his lips. His aches seemingly melted away, much more effectively than they ever had in the past, and the warm tingle that had settled in his belly spread steadily throughout his battered frame, until he was not just feeling better... he felt soothed and relaxed; this sensation of lightness, of warmth and comfort eased itself through him, so that he almost felt the need to lap at the mouth of the glass bottle for any last drops of that wonderful creation.

Just as Link began to slide the tip of his tongue out to capture the final remnants of the concoction, his eyes caught sight of a distorted image through the uneven glass of the bottle. The teen snapped his head up so quickly, he could only imagine that he must have had the most profound deer-in-the-headlights expression; it was only that much more intensified as he instinctively reached for his sword, only to recall that the one on his back was not his and that he wasn't supposed to be using it.

Yet Link was also perfectly aware that he'd already used the sword, even if the details remained heavily distorted in his memory; he certainly could not assume that his faded recall was a dream and nothing more, because there stood the proof in the doorway suddenly, staring back at him with the most relaxed demeanor and pale, mischievous lips, upturned just slightly as the vile creature's dark eyes connected with Link's own.

.._Ghirahim._

Link never failed to regard him with mistrust, to regard him as an enemy, and truly, he was not wrong in doing so, was he? Even now, he was still uncertain; he couldn't possibly know the cruel spirit's motives at any given time, because as far as the Skyloftian was concerned, Ghirahim was an erratic, unpredictable being that simply couldn't be trusted. The teen had perhaps bested Ghirahim in battle more than once, yet still he felt the spirit's presence just as heavily intimidating as it was the very first time they met.

It wasn't possible for Link to have forgotten what his mission had been; he'd come to Eldin Volcano in order to vanquish Ghirahim's spirit with the destruction of his equally malicious blade. This was not just a notion he'd dedicated himself to on a whim, it was for the sake of all the people that the vile entity had hurt, and all the innocents out there whom he could potentially harm or even kill, and as well, this was even Ghirahim's own wish. Was he disappointed? Was he masking the rage that so typically tended to boil over? What was he thinking? Link could tell nothing from the neutral body-language of the spirit as he hesitated on the threshold of the hut, holding his frame upright with remarkable posture, yet with enough ease that he seemed entirely calm.

Link was confused and certainly bewildered. The younger male assumed that, like some carnivorous beast, the spirit could sense his unease if it wasn't visible enough on the surface, and that he'd act upon it now that he'd discovered Link in a moment of weakness.

Just as always, the blonde male's voice was lost to him in this moment of apprehension, further elevating the idea that he was now facing off against a foe. And then, without any utterance or dramatic declarations of his own, the certain relaxed placement of the spirit's weight upon one leg shifted until he was evenly balanced, and he began toward the defenseless Skyloftian, his graceful gate a confident strut, the same cat-like stalk as always when he advanced upon Link in battle.

It was so unnerving in its familiarity that Link felt his heart skip a beat as its pace jumped painfully in his chest. His focused gaze met Ghirahim's own endlessly dark eyes, or, more accurately, the one abyssal optic that was visible; the spirit, too, looked down on Link with hard concentration, cold and steely in every way. The blonde boy swallowed nervously as he blindly shuffled backward by a few paces, preferring to restore some amount of distance between himself and his enemy. A sincere plea for peace rested silently in the blonde boy's troubled expression, yet he found his beseeching ignored, and in his desperation, he did the only thing he really could do. (He was backed against a wall. He had no other choice.)

Link drew forth the only sword he had in his possession; the black steel of Ghirahim's very own blade called out with a triumphant, metallic ring as it was brandished, resting comfortably in Link's grasp, settling there as if it truly belonged, the leather-bound length of the hilt shivering in delight.

Instantly, the white-clad entity halted; at first he was reserved, and virtually without expression. He did not yet speak but the darkness of his eyes could be seen slowly, observantly shifting between the young Hero's face, up to his hands, then along the malevolent weapon tightly held within. Then, the ridge above the spirit's right eye raised, along with the corners of his pale-white lips, devilishly expressing his intrigue before his typical theatrics followed.

A gasp of mock-surprise resounded sharply from the spirit, far too much expression placed behind the action for it to be anything near believable. The obviousness of his sarcasm was further highlighted as he threw up his hands, as if in threatened shock, though a smile still remained on his lips.

The spirit let one of his arms lower back to his side, the way in which he held his limbs appearing to be a purposeful, practiced position to gracefully frame his lithe body as he stood before what he regarded as a lesser being; his other hand lifted to be held before his lips as he laughed outright at the boy who stood facing off against him.

"Honestly, Sky Child," came the spirit's voice, his tone stuck somewhere between disbelief and amusement, "..you revived me from my state of slumber, just to point my very own blade at me? Are there any limits to your foolishness?"

Ghirahim flicked his hair back from his face in a habitual gesture, letting out a most exasperated sigh as he did so. How very tedious it could be to be in the presence of such an ignorant child; the spirit had too little patience for explanations, but he wasn't beyond furthering Link's '_education_'. With another dramatic flick of his wrist, he aimed his open palm in the utterly rude, defensive teenager's direction.

This seemingly simple movement, so reminiscent of the 'talk to the hand!' Zelda once used in constant retort against Groose back when they were kids, caused a most unexpected shift that firmly defined who had the upper hand in this instance. Whereas the sword that Link once welded served as an effective deterrent to this particular character, the weapon which the young Hero now clutched proved to be the opposite; beyond the Skyloftian's control, the blade in his hands flailed from his grasp, and turned on him suddenly. The sword twisted round in air, glowing with a hellish, fiery aura as it was controlled magically, then it drew back as if to swing at Link, to cut him down, only to be shifted at the last moment so that the semi-sharpened edges faced away from him and he was smacked back by the weight of the steel itself.

Link toppled backward, his back colliding with the crude construction of the hut he'd awakened in; luckily it wasn't terribly painful, which was why the blonde male was able to recover quickly enough to cast a sharp glare of offense up at the spirit, despite how the floating sword now angled to point down threateningly in Link's direction, looking as though it could impale him before he had any chance to move or avoid it.

"I'm truly disappointed!," Ghirahim explained, still coming across as vehemently sarcastic in all of his bravado, despite the troubled edge to his tone. He kept his one palm directed at Link, holding the blade poised for attack, while he, himself turned away slightly, shaking his head while his other palm rested against his forehead, seeming to express without words that this ordeal was the source of enough stress to erupt into physical discomfort and migraines. "..after everything that has happened between us, I thought you and I had bonded! Yet what an absolute folly on my part; you're still just as insolent as you've always been!"

The horrifically offended spirit did not even turn his gaze back to Link, yet the hovering sword began to lower, its pointed tip sliding through the air until it pressed lightly into the cloth of the defenseless teen's forest-colored tunic. Link could feel the needle-sharp end baring down on his flesh between the fibers of his garments.

"I'm sorry!," the Skyloftian forced out without any time to even consider what he was saying. These words must have been what Ghirahim wished to hear, or else they were pleasing in some other way, because the spirit sharply turned his head back in Link's direction, his body following in a slow, graceful rotation, and the blade lowered no further. However, as Link raised wary eyes to his enemy's face, he found an expectant look masking the visible half of Ghirahim's countenance, and so the teen sought something further to say in his own defense. His lips opened softly, as if words rested just at the tip of his tongue, and he merely withheld them for a second while he selectively weighed the possible outcome that would result.

"I.. didn't mean to use your sword and revive you. I hadn't meant to, I'm sorry," Link's eyes nervously flickered here and there as he spoke, mainly setting upon the ground before him, or anything else that caught his gaze in his downcast position, though an extended silence followed his words, whereas he'd expected Ghirahim to say -something-, _at least_. Slowly, Link raised his eyes back to meet Ghirahim's own once again, finding curiously that the spirit honestly appeared somewhat contemplative.

After a tense moment of eye-contact, the spirit was first to relent and turn away; he scoffed irritably before he gave his wrist another flick, which withdrew the sword and turned it back so that the hilt hovered slowly down near Link's hands, beckoning his grasp.

The teen surely let out a soft noise of confusion as he watched the sword return to him, but his hesitance lasted for only the shortest second before his fingers curled round the length of the handle. He was no less confounded, and found himself warily peering up at Ghirahim, seeing the spirit turn back toward him, giving him this disgusted expression that seemed to say, 'Why are you still on the ground? Get up, you moron!'

Link shuffled to his feet, not taking his eyes off of Ghirahim as the spirit closed the space between them in a few graceful steps. "Why apologize?," Ghirahim hissed mockingly, his bitter tone drawing a slight flinch out of the younger, shorter male as his former enemy came uncomfortably near to him. "Shouldn't you expect me to yield to your hand now and call you 'Master'?"

The spirit's gloved hands extended toward Link; the teen wholly expected to be struck or harmed in some way, and even though he had a weapon in hand, he held it away in a non-threatening position, knowing now that he couldn't use it, and would probably be punished for attempting to do so. Apprehensive and watchful, though Link somewhat angled his head away, his eyes remained fixated on Ghirahim's hands, finding that once they came into contact with the teen, it was in no way that was yet directly harmful.

The white material of the spirit's gloves was remarkably soft; that was, oddly enough, the first thing that Link acknowledged as he felt Ghirahim's hands lay overtop of his own upon the hilt of the sword, raising the ebony steel of the blade further upright so that he could observe it better.

At the exhale of a displeased-sounding sigh from the older male, Link wanted to withdraw his own hands, but the tiniest fidget of his fingers caused Ghirahim's grasp to tighten, disallowing this. "Just look what you've done!," came the entity's most inconvenienced tone, "My sword has already settled itself in your hands, giving itself over to your whim and needs. Its forged an empathic bond of partnership between us, and let me say, your emotions are intolerably erratic, even in your sleep."

Quickly enough, Ghirahim's hands removed themselves as Link quietly whispered another apology. The teen took this opportunity to return the blade to its rest inside the sheath on his back; he was assuming at this point that the spirit did not intend to attack. (Not that the sword would be of any assistance, anyway.)

"I'm sorry that I let this happen," the teen spoke sincerely. He was wondering if all the resent he felt toward his fate as the Goddess's Chosen Hero had caused him to fall completely from Hylia's favor. Perhaps he'd never been anything great at all and it was her temporary blessing that had gotten him through all the difficult times; now that Link's role in her master plan was complete, he'd gone back to being a regular, unimpressive boy.. Or maybe the shroud of negativity growing in his heart had made him irresponsible or prone to failure? He was definitely beginning to see a pattern.

Link's gaze remained downcast- he truly was in a pathetic position. He'd failed in a mission he'd dedicated himself to, and even worse, if it hadn't been for his _-enemy-, of all people_, he would be dead now. Being _saved_ by a creature he was destined to _destroy_; it was an inescapable hell of pure guilt.

"..I'm grateful for your help, Ghirahim," the teen could scarcely recall having ever spoken the spirit's name aloud, but he also considered that maybe it was simply that he'd never heard himself speak the spirit's name with such reverence and gratitude and woe all at once. "I won't fail again.. I'll return you to the sword."

The young Skyloftian lowered himself to a crouch, one hand resting near the top of his boot, his fingers dipping beneath the leathery surface and drawing out the only other weapon he'd kept with him, just in the case that this very situation became a reality. This blade was small and seemingly unthreatening, but the steel still gleamed with the purity of Zelda's, no, Hylia's blessing, Hylia's light, and it was all Link needed to fully drain the life from the menacing sword spirit once again.

As Link straightened, blessed blade in hand, he looked upon the creature before him with determined intent, and only now did the spirit show any outward signs of his changed intentions. Ghirahim was not threatened nor was he fearful of any Sky Child, no matter whether he'd been defeated in the past or not, and Link himself held no ill will toward the spirit in this moment; no, he was only doing what he thought he -had- to do. However, the very slightest flinch visibly went unrestrained as the spirit took a step back from the younger male, lifting one hand to lay upon his chest, as if to soothe away the simple recollection of the intense pain of having that blade embedded in his core; the spirit grimaced at the unpleasant memory.

At that time, Ghirahim had resigned himself to death and even to the pain and encroaching darkness that came with having one's existence completely erased. He felt that he had seen so much death and he supposed it only aided him in accepting his own. Just living had been such a burden all this time; what was one last moment of intense agony, one last time..? But now, his shattered pride and the feelings of uselessness were dulling away in his mind, and he'd found himself fixating on at least one reason to remain alive. He took one more step back and raised his hand to stop Link.

"You think it's just that easy, boy?," came the darkened hiss of the spirit's voice, every word spat in pure insult. The Hero himself blinked, dumbfounded, looking up at the spirit with an expression of puzzled innocence and guilt. Link watched, seeing the way Ghirahim's dark eyes shifted down to the blessed blade, giving the dagger a resentful glare. "Have you any idea how excruciating it is to have blessed steel plunged into my core? You think you can just use my blade and revive me to save yourself, and that it is perfectly fine to subject me to that again because you made an innocent mistake?"

No; that wasn't what Link thought at all. He was perfectly aware of his errors and of his failure, yet he had no other choice, in fact, he wasn't even completely certain of how or when he'd taken Ghirahim's sword up to defend himself. The teen shook his head, his brows knitting together in lament, wrinkling the soft skin between. "I'm sorry," Link whispered again, beginning to feel repetitive, though he could think of nothing else to say.

"Sorry?," Ghirahim sharply echoed, his shoulders held in a tense position as his arms straightened by his side and one of his feet stamped in indignation. The spirit's rigidity did not remain, however, and he furiously threw up his arms at the ignorant child as he spoke, "..that's not nearly good enough, Sky Child! Coming from one of the goddess's most '_just_' little servants, with your sense of _compassion_ and _equality_, you should know that I deserve compensation for my troubles, and you deserve to be sharply reprimanded!"

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen!," Link shook his head in frustration as he piped up in his own defense. "I admit that I'm at fault, and that it's wrong of me to subject you to suffering for my mistakes..," but who was somebody like Ghirahim to speak of right and wrong, as if he knew anything? Who was this creature to act as if he rightly deserved fair treatment when he was nothing but cruel and brutal, himself?

At first, Link hardened himself, his own bitter thoughts masking his face in a glare, though as he continued speaking, his voice lacked the strength of conviction, making his uncertainty obvious to any who listened closely enough. "..but with all the gruesome things that you've done, maybe you _do_ deserve to suffer."

"I _have_ suffered," the spirit retorted, without even considering his words. Immediately, the teen averted his gaze in a perceived feeling of ignorance, of selfishness. The spirit, however, decidedly redirected the subject back to the young 'Hero'. "You've fallen quite a long way from all the 'forgiveness' you were speaking of before, haven't you? That's where all of you righteous fools are such hypocrites. You excuse yourselves for your wrongs, just because you feel remorse, but you condemn that which you believe is 'evil'. You would expect me to forgive the wrongs that have befallen me, whereas you'd never think to forgive me of my sin, now would you?"

The blonde male did not yet drag his gaze up from the ground, keeping his eyes downcast in shame; he didn't fully understand nor did he agree fully with what Ghirahim seemed to be getting at. Of course evil beings deserved punishment for their misdeeds, why wouldn't they? Regardless, this point was not even what confounded Link the most. Hadn't Ghirahim been the one beckoning Link to thrust the blade into his chest before? Hadn't Ghirahim beseeched that the Hero provide him mercy in death?

Shaking his head in utter confusion, Link now shrugged in bewilderment, raising a befuddled expression as he questioned his enemy's motives. "..I don't understand," he quietly uttered,"..I thought this was what you _wanted_?"

"Yes, you're right, I resigned myself to allowing you to destroy me," as he spoke, it was almost entirely obvious that the spirit was about to become even further irked; the sharp way he spun on heel, tossing his white hair back from his face with an aggressive swipe of his hand was fully indicative of the rage bubbling up inside him. He turned again, pacing a wide circle as he continued to speak, and Link remained quietly, warily watching, not at all accustomed to Ghirahim's eccentric behavior, despite being well-acquainted enough to predict the spirit's oncoming tantrum.

"..I placed myself into your hands, without any real struggle, and bid that you be my executioner.. Yet you couldn't even manage that much!," here Ghirahim gestured most dramatically, throwing one hand up over his head, his tone steadily growing more bitingly hostile, "..You could flawlessly tear my carefully laid plans out from under me, but you couldn't handle this one simple task!," he punctuated the pause between his sentences with a deep, seemingly exhausted and dispirited sigh, "...I suppose I must be the real fool here.. A fool for being bested by you and a fool for trusting you for that reason."

As Ghirahim finished his spiel, he made his way over to the straw mattress Link had awakened upon, and he threw himself down into a half-reclined, half-sitting position with vigorous exasperation, if such was possible; his body arced backward, supported by one hand which was positioned slightly behind himself, his gloved fingers entangling in the sheets beneath, while his other palm was rested overtop of his closed eyes. The spirit took a deep breath, held it in for a moment, then slowly exhaled as if in an effort to calm the endlessly shifting torrent of his improperly configured emotions, then he continued speaking in a far calmer tone.

"In any case.. I gave up without a struggle. I could return to the sword on my own.. using that _thing_ on me isn't necessary," he removed the hand from his face, and gestured for Link to put away the blessed blade with the flick of his hand, eyeing it with distaste.

The Hero's blue eyes widened slightly as he absorbed Ghirahim's final instruction. A soft gasp of surprise and confusion passed over his lips, and as he attempted to grasp what the spirit was informing him of, Link felt he had missed something, or that he wasn't quite understanding. "But.. I thought this _was_ necessary?" Was the spirit trying to trick him now? Was this some ploy? ..and if not, and it was true that the use of the blessed blade was unnecessary, then why had Ghirahim pushed it so fervently before? Why had he been so insistent?

"It _would_ be vital," Ghirahim explained, his tone utterly impatient, ".._if_ I were trying to escape from you. I could reclaim my sword right now and leave, yet you see that I haven't." Again, the spirit added a certain emphasis to his statement with another of his theatrical gestures, this time stating with an elaborate movement of his hand, 'see me? I'm still here.'

With a grunt of vexation, Link outwardly questioned Ghirahim's statement, his subtle annoyance ringing clear enough in his tone for an attentive listener to audibly catch. "Why didn't you just tell me that in the first place? If that's true, I could have avoided stabbing you in the chest altogether."

Almost instantly, the spirit scoffed, now changing position, his torso inclining forward as he crossed his legs and placed an elbow on one knee, leaning into his palm. He shot Link a most scornful yet accusing look, as if he intended to say, '..you never had any problem stabbing me in the chest before. How dare you act offended because it had been an uncomfortable situation for _you_.' Yet even for all of his aggravation, the spirit shifted his gaze so that his endless, dark eyes stared straight ahead, and he further explained the process to the obviously ignorant boy. "The penetration of my core by that blade drained my life energy until I was at the point of unfeeling dormancy. I _wanted_ to be soundly sleeping at the time of my destruction, yet now there's really no point." (There certainly wasn't enough time for the holy blade to drain the spirit's well now that the Triforce had filled it to overflowing.)

Quietly, Link beckoned Ghirahim to continue in his explanations, speaking in questioning, his tone soft and untainted. "..what does this mean?"

However, the spirit grew only further fatigued as his nerves were continuously troubled by the teen's outrageous lack of knowledge. With a huff, Ghirahim's body toppled backward, landing atop the mattress with a plop, and he extended his arm overtop of his eyes, looking as though he wished to sleep and not to be disturbed in any way.

When the spirit fell silent and still, Link's confusion began to evolve into pure discomfort; dealing with Ghirahim was truly a taxing endeavor, and it was just as difficult to explain. On one hand he seemed incredibly wise, the proof of his numerous years, yet outwardly he acted in a way that Link would describe as something in between a fussy child and.. a woman? (Because women tended to be just as confusing, as far as Link was concerned.)

Biting his lip in mild anxiety, the blonde male sauntered over to where Ghirahim laid, the thump of his boots slow but clearly distinct, and revealing of his approach. This wasn't fully intentional, but he certainly did not wish to sneak up on the spirit, unaware of how he would react, especially since the spirit wasn't in a weakened state any longer. "Ghirahim..?," Link softly uttered as he stood before where the spirit laid, "..did you hear me?"

"Yes, Sky Child," the spirit groaned, unmoving from his reclined position. Once more he sighed deeply, finding that these questions were steadily growing more and more tedious. "..if you cast my blade into the magma without first draining me to a state of dormancy, it means that I'll be perfectly aware of the pain, and that I'll feel every moment of it until it kills me."

Listening, Link turned his gaze elsewhere, suddenly feeling a bit unwell at the explanation; he remained silent as Ghirahim continued to muse aloud, though the teen now wished the spirit had chosen, instead, not to answer his question.

"For all I know," Ghirahim contemplated aloud, as if he were speaking of a most average occurrence, "..having the blessed blade stabbed into my core may honestly be more excruciating, in comparison. I suppose it all depends on how long it takes for the magma to dissolve my blade and how long I have to endure it."

As he finished weighing the two horrific options, the spirit shifted his arm from over his face, looking up to see the visibility of Link's discomfort printed so clearly on his lovely countenance. The boy had turned his head to the side and his eyes were fixated somewhere between the wall and floor of the bokoblin hut. His lips had pulled into a troubled grimace, and his brows were knitted together, but the look in his eyes foretold of his mental anguish and how very squeamish he still was in the face of gruesome death, despite that it was that of a supposed enemy.

While Link's attention had drifted, the spirit allowed the most subtle smile to tug at his pale lips, his dark eyes watchfully observing the teen. _He's so soft, still so very soft, _the spirit was inwardly thinking as he looked up at Link.

Slowly, Ghirahim lifted his body from the soft surface of the mattress, white tresses falling messily over his face as he shifted, though he quickly brushed them aside with a quick flick of his hand that came almost unconsciously. As he sat upright, straightening elegantly, his posture and the felinesque length of his torso brought his head level with Link's chest. Dark eyes raised to peer up at the teen, the lightless depths hiding away the warm, sudden feelings of fondness for how easily the soft, young human grieved and faulted himself. Patiently, Ghirahim waited until Link met his gaze, drinking in the boy's sweet sorrow when at last the sad blue of those broken glass doll eyes dared to connect with the all-consuming inkwells silently watching him.

Link was brimming with guilt, _which was perfect_, of course.

The softest, most seemingly innocuous smile lingered on the spirit's pale-white lips. Without any intent to harm the boy before him, the spirit extended his hand up, placing his palm gingerly against the blonde male's cheek; this gentle disposition must have aided the teen in feeling less threatened, as he did not move away or even flinch at the spirit's touch. He was guileless prey lured into the malicious snare of a deceitful predator.

One single digit of the sword-spirit's opposite hand hooked into the leather belt at the teen's waist, keeping him from escaping. Now, Link nervously fidgeted, but did not fight against Ghirahim's sudden grasp on him, if only because the spirit had yet to hurt him.

"I'm sure that, for you, falling into magma would be such an easy end," Ghirahim uttered, his voice silky-sweet, despite his suddenly macabre words, "..the extreme heat of molten stone is much gentler than plain fire, because it's so much more powerful. It's surely enough to completely destroy your mortal flesh before the sensation of pain even reaches your brain. You'd be dead so quickly, you wouldn't have to suffer.."

With a sharp gasp of fear, Link jolted himself backward in an attempt to escape; in instantaneous response, Ghirahim firmly clenched the teen's belt in a tightened fist, giving it a jerk to pull Link back into place before the spirit continued speaking, the smile on his face now intensified to a wicked grin. "Maybe you and I should go in together, hm? That seems a fitting punishment for your mishap. You can face your death as payment for reviving me and forcing me to feel my own, though of course, it will still be much easier for you. I'll have to endure the burning until the steel of my blade is fully liquified."

The young hero was silent, apprehension creeping over him and stealing away his ability to speak. However, the spirit did not care to wait for any response; he fluidly raised himself to his feet, still holding onto the blonde male and disallowing him any attempt to escape. "What do you think, Link?," Ghirahim questioned as if he truly expected an answer, his hand lifting to Link's face again, though now his touch was much less delicate. He tucked his gloved fingers beneath the teen's chin, grasping his jaw tightly, and raised his face upward so that he was forced to look the devilish spirit in the eye.

"Come with me," the spirit cooed softly, "..bring me some comfort in knowing that I won't have to face death alone. ..Well?"

Link's eyes were glassy in fright, his countenance masked in confused terror; he just knew that Ghirahim was plotting something ghastly and the wrong answer in this instance could entangle him in a most dire situation. Still, there was nothing he could say, and all he could do was give his head a soft, hesitant shake against the spirit's grip on him.

"No?," Ghirahim drew out his reaction in mock surprise, looking down on the ensnared Hero with an expression of false distress. It easily vanished, and that horrible smile crept over the malevolent spirit's pale lips again as he quietly chuckled. "..I see. You're afraid, aren't you? I can see the alarm in those lovely blue eyes."

With a soft, mischievous laugh, the spirit suddenly fragmented into nothing, the flickers of light that remained where he'd once stood fading away moments after, just seconds before the same golden flashes of diamond-shaped light appeared from nothing and pieced back together to re-form the sword-spirit; he now stood directly behind Link, his body conformed against the younger male's back, the sudden closeness and intimacy of contact utterly baffling the teen and causing him to crawl in his skin.

Yet, Link remained as composed as he could, perfectly aware that this was simply Ghirahim's own personal intimidation tactic, his way of jostling the Skyloftian's concentration and unnerving him. The most reaction out of Link was the softest gasp, even when he felt Ghirahim's hands on his shoulders, pulling him back against him that much more closely, so that the back of his head pressed into the spirit's chest.

Both were still as Ghirahim spoke in address to the younger male, his voice still deceptively gentle, "It's easier to have courage and to face your death when you know you can fight, isn't it?"

Again, Link was sure that he was falling into some sort of trap that he was unaware of, because he was completely ignorant of the spirit's intentions. He quietly calmed himself, trying to ignore the enervating closeness between himself and the monster at his back, contemplating his answer.

_What do I say?_

..just say it.

_What is he expecting?_

..go on, say it.

_What is it he wants?_

Say it, boy, say it.

_And how will it effect things if I fall into his trap?_

Say it, sky child. Go on, I can feel you thinking it. Just say it.

"..yes," Link finally whispered, "..because there is still _hope_ for life."

A subtle smirk tugged at the spirit's lips as he leaned down, letting the teen feel that very smile against the delicate point of his right ear. Softly, Ghirahim whispered to the younger male, this question having been waiting, waiting for Link's answer. "...but we aren't allowed to fight against our rightful punishments, are we? I've been sentenced to death for my wrongs, and you know you deserve to share in that punishment for your own mistakes, now don't you?"

Another silence fell over the young hero. His morality was being questioned, which, ironically, he had done before, and he didn't even need to think about his answer. All of his guilt and self-loathing were perfectly clear, and that must have been why Ghirahim posed this question; he already knew Link's answer, and he knew that anything otherwise would be a lie.

Link's thoughts hung on his mishap in Skyloft, on how he'd let innocent people be hurt because of his own foolishness, and now how he failed to execute his enemy mercifully and painlessly. What good was he, now? How could he call himself a Hero? He'd begun to believe in what Ghirahim was telling him. He could clearly see the point that was being made, and... Ghirahim was right. Link's head lowered in his shame, his blonde bangs falling over his eyes as he shut them, wanting to block everything out.

"...yes," Link uttered, his voice quiet and trembling.

The sound of a joyous and triumphant laugh broke the teen's pensive silence, jarring his frame in a startled jolt. The laughter, however, was very quickly the last worry on Link's mind as he was suddenly swept from his feet and whisked into the spirit's arms.

Link's shock almost impeded him from any reaction other than struggling, his entire frame rigid in Ghirahim's arms as he was carried out of the hut against his will, and without even a clue as to why. "W-what are you doing?," came the startled male's voice, questioning what seemed entirely to be some sort of ambush.

"It's been settled!," Ghirahim answered in a tone that was utterly foreboding in how completely merry it sounded, "You and I, Sky Child, tied together by a thread of fate as I've previously declared, companions in battle and now companions in death, as well!"

"What?," Link gasped, if only because it was the only thing he could think to say in his panic. No matter his admittance of guilt, he dared not let Ghirahim carry him to a burning death; he was only human, of course he was afraid. But as he struggled, he could feel the spirit's arms and hands tighten, crushing the blonde teen against the older male's chest, and Link quietly begged Ghirahim to release him, to let him go.

"Shh, my pet..," the spirit cooed, a devilish smirk plastered to his pale lips, "..hold onto your courage and let yourself be calm. It will end much too quickly for it to hurt and I'll keep you here in my arms the entire time. I'll set you free from this tormented existence and the burden of responsibility."

"Let..," Link kicked, "..me..," he pushed his arms against Ghirahim's chest, kicking and struggling, "...go!," and then, just as he requested, Link was abruptly dropped to the ground with a harsh thud. He let out a yelp as his back collided with the Eldin soil beneath him, the air forced out of his lungs suddenly. He coiled in on himself, coughing, but quickly pushed himself up onto his knees, glaring at the malicious spirit.

Ghirahim was shaking his head, his arms crossed over his chest in disapproval as he quietly 'tisk tisk'ed' at the young hero. He heaved a heavy sigh, his brows lowering in dissatisfaction. "Again, so disappointing you are!," he flicked his hair back from his face, both dark eyes glaring down at Link momentarily before the curtain of pure white tresses fell over one side of the spirit's visage once again.

And then, suddenly, Ghirahim's expression softened just slightly; he leaned forward to regard the toppled Hero, his head titled to his left by the most subtle fraction, but enough so that both of his eyes were visible. "..however.. At the very least, I see that you understand my feelings now."

From the ground, Link remained still and unmoving, like some frozen mouse who was perfectly aware that a Remlit was eyeing him, ready to pounce. He stared up at Ghirahim, sure that he certainly didn't understand his feelings, because he didn't even know what he was talking about; a look of questioning stained Link's expression, reflecting itself in his blue eyes as they peered into the softened ebony pair looking down at him, expectant of this silent questioning.

"You understand my feelings," Ghirahim restated his point matter-of-factly, "You think I want to be tossed into magma while perfectly aware of it?," he quirked a brow as he spoke, "..do you?"

"...no," Link quietly answered, after only the slightest hesitation. Again, he had that feeling that he was falling for some furtive ploy he was yet unaware of.

Straightening himself with grace, the spirit nodded in a strangely sagely manner, seeming to commend Link as if he were a learning pupil while beckoning that the blonde male rise back to his feet now that it was permissible.

Link nervously clambered to his feet when the sword-spirit advanced toward him, closing the already-minimal gap of space between them. He somehow assumed that Ghirahim now meant to harm him again, yet the spirit's actions remained an unpredictable enigma, ever opposite expectations, ever shifting. Instead of attacking the teen for any reason, the spirit extended his hand to aid the boy, not waiting for his assistance to be accepted so much as he grasped the Hero by the wrist, and gave him an upward tug.

This offering of peace did not inspire any gratitude from the young Skyloftian; it beckoned further confusion and left Link staring up at the now perfectly calm and withheld spirit.

"I think," came Ghirahim's most smooth, mannerly tone, "..we should practice some of your own gospel, Sky Child. I can forgive you for resurrecting me from my blade before the completion of my destruction, allowing you to escape punishment, but in turn, you must do the same for me.. Fair?"

And there, before Link's eyes, was the final result of all the trickery he'd been sensing; this was what Ghirahim had been working his way to all this time, manipulating the situation with deceit and intimidation. Still, the teen's confusion was the most troublesome burden in his mind, and he spoke up in questioning first and foremost. What was the reason for all this?

"Does this mean.. You changed your mind about death, then?"

Ghirahim simply shrugged in a delicate, nonchalant movement of his shoulders. "For now," he answered simply, "I can be fickle about things."

"But why?," Link practically groaned in frustration. After everything he had put himself through for this, Ghirahim thought he could just change his mind? He thought he could just say no now that the deed was so near completion? "You had been so determined before.. And what makes you think you can escape punishment for everything you've done in the past?"

The spirit raised his hand to shush the teenage Skyloftian, dismissing his questions as if they were the tedious ramblings of a foolish child. (Which they were, to him anyway.) "We've already discussed all that, Sky Child. Forgive and forget. Isn't that your way?," he smirked knowingly at the blonde male who stood before him as he turned his and Zelda's own philosophies against him. He didn't really need any additional ammunition to prevail in this debate, but he went ahead and furthered his point anyway. "..and of course, you needed a better weapon, didn't you?"

Turning on heel, Ghirahim looked about as if he expected an enemy to be along soon enough, his fingertips raised to press against his lips in false anxiousness. "What if you should be attacked again? Throw my blade into a pit of magma and you'll be leaving yourself defenseless. There'll be absolutely no shred of hope for survival."

Already, Link was shaking his head. He wanted nothing to do with that vile, malevolent blade that was Ghirahim's weapon, and he could hardly bear even the thought of having to live with Ghirahim constantly there, an inescapable presence. Even _-if-_ Link could tolerate these tortures, and the constant anxiety that it would bring him, he knew better; he'd been forbidden to bring the dark sword back to Skyloft. Allowing Ghirahim to live? It wasn't permissible at all.

"..I can't," Link uttered, "I'm not even allowed to come back to Skyloft with your blade, and I can't just let you go either, not when I know what you're capable of."

A look of disbelief came over the spirit's countenance; this expression was touched with hurt which, oddly, was almost believable in the way he wore it, it's appearance almost, _almost_ genuine. (Link knew it was just his masterful deceit, his attempts to manipulate the blonde male's compassionate heart) Quickly, Ghirahim turned his back fully to the blonde male, and he sighed in utter disappointment before he spoke up in a distinctly sullen tone. "You've truly fallen from grace, haven't you, Hero? You would discard my life for the sake of convenience. You would rather dispose of me than even consider any alternative."

A sigh of frustration was heaved from the very bottom of Link's lungs; he swore that his shoulders had slumped forward in exasperation and pure exhaustion. Still, he raised his eyes watchfully to Ghirahim's back, observing the slow, dismal way the sword-spirit was shaking his head. Link knew better than to believe in Ghirahim's acts, but, at the same time, he could not deny the shadow of doubt in his mind.

Ghirahim had been right. This situation was all Link's fault, and even if the sword spirit did deserve to suffer, it wasn't Link's place to decide that; it had been his job to show his enemy mercy, and he had failed at ending him painlessly... then, to top it all off, Ghirahim had acted of his own accord to save Link's very life.

The spirit turned his head, looking over his shoulder in questioning, as if he were silently asking Link to make a decision, once more resigning himself to whatever was to be his fate, no matter what it happened to be. Link visibly distinguished, in that moment, some terribly significant look of weariness buried deeply in the vast, expansive abyss of the sword-spirit's eyes. He averted his gaze, not wanting to see it, thinking it was trickery or assumption on his part. (But he remembered that he'd seen Ghirahim give him that pleading stare before, and that Ghirahim had already confided in the teen once before, trusting Link to end his existence.)

..but Link didn't want to believe that there was any significance to any of that, because if he did, he opened himself up to all the guilt that would eternally be his, because he knew what duties had to be fulfilled. He knew. His hands tightened, and he suddenly recalled the presence of the blessed dagger in his possession.

He raised the purified steel so that the deep blue hue of his eyes were reflected on the shine of the surface. The young Hero contemplated this blade which had rested in his palm all this time, so perfectly quiet and unnoticed. Link sighed, knowing as he looked at the blessed blade that only one weapon would be leaving the Eldin region with him today, and it would be a small dagger that he tucked into the sheath in his boot, hidden away and secret.

...As for Ghirahim..

Link's eyes flickered up to regard the sword spirit, at last meeting his questioning gaze once more; without words, the spirit could see and understood that a decision had been made, and that he had been sentenced.

:: ::

Inside the volcano, the air was still dark and heavy with smoke. It created a black atmosphere that shrouded the entirety of the scene, aside from that which was illuminated by the infernal golden glow of the impossible heat of the magma below. Ash drifted upward on the rising heat, fluttering light gray feathers of soot, pouring slowly upward like a mournful snow storm in reverse.

Link stood at the edge, over the hellish pit of endless hunger that mercilessly consumed all. The boiling, radiating heat of the molten stone below nipped at his tender flesh, burning in a most threatening manner, warning him not to step too close. The teen could only imagine that if the air flowing up from the magma hurt so badly, what must it have been like to dissolve in that pit.

He bit his lip, wishing he didn't ask himself such tedious questions. Hesitantly, he drew a wooden box from his leather pack; this small chest contained the bits of steel that had been trimmed from Ghirahim's blade. Link held it out over the flame, then released it without a second thought, watching it spiral downward, splashing down into the magma. The wood of the box ignited into a small, raging flame that hissed for only a moment, until the wood was reduced to ash, some of which drifted upward, while the black steel from inside the box formed a circle of bubbling ebony below.

Next, Link slowly drew the sword from the sheath on his back. The absence of its weight left him with a defenseless feeling, but he ignored the oddity of it. He held the sword out before himself, his eyes tracing it from the diamond-shaped end of the hilt, up the obsidian shine of the magnificent blade, to the silvery, sharpened tip. The teen took a slow breath, steadying himself, though the smoke burned in his lugs, and he held the sword out, over the pit.

His fingers clutched at the blade possessively, trembling upon it as it dangled above the ultimate danger waiting below. The teen swallowed, his mouth dry, his throat burning from the heat. He wanted to be out of this place. He wanted this to be done with. He wanted to go home to Skyloft and forget all of this... but he just couldn't let go of the sword.

But he had to. He had to. He knew he had to. He shook his head, his eyes glassy with tears, though.. it was from the heat burning his eyes, surely. Then, in a weak, trembling voice, he spoke up.

"..I'm sorry."

With a forceful movement, he tore his hands from the blade, his fingers unwinding, and letting it plummet down, down, down... and finally, it struck the magma below with a loud fizzle, sinking into the golden glow, and bubbling up instantly in ripples of melted ebony steel.

Sharply, Link turned himself away from the pit, throwing himself down on the ground with his hands pressed tightly against his ears.. but he could not escape the sound he was hearing, no matter how he tried, because it was burrowing through his skull, inside the back of his mind, resounding, echoing all throughout his head. He begged for it to stop, he begged for it to end, he pleaded, but it did not. Screams of agony tore through his mind, the piercing cries of sheer torment, which Link was perfectly aware were those of a creature who was burning, completely and brutally aware of every moment of horrific sensation.

Before it was over, Link himself was screaming in anguish, unaware if he wished to drown out the other voice, or if the cries had just become too much for him to handle, so much that he could do nothing else but cry himself.

:: ::

..tbc..

::


	10. Chapter 10

_::_

_[Do not adjust your television sets! I repeat, do not adjust your television sets! Season Two of 'In Hatred we Join Hands' now begins!]_

* * *

><p>::<p>

/.. Rubie was alone. She had absolutely nothing in this life, she had nobody, and she was hated for things that she could not control. Rubie was discarded by the people of her village, treated like garbage. She'd cried at night; she cried because she couldn't understand why people hated her, why they hurt her. She didn't understand why life hurt so much, and why she was forced to be sad when everybody else was happier than her.

Rubie stopped crying at night when she began to notice that somebody else in the village was crying. She would stand outside of the man, Minkin's, house, and listen. She could hear the soft sound of weeping. It was filled with loneliness, anger, and confusion. It sounded the same as the weeping in her own heart, and she wondered each night, who was it that cried like that? Maybe she could stop their crying, the same way they had stopped hers.

But Rubie never met the person who cried. She never came to know who they were, even though she listened each night.

Then, one night, the crying stopped.

Rubie waited to hear it that night, but.. it never came. She fell asleep in a nearby alley, her cold feet pressed into the bricks beneath her as her body slumped in a corner behind a stairway. What stirred Rubie from her slumber were the sounds of screams and hot, engulfing flames. She came to her feet in panic when she awakened, able to hear the terrified wails of the villagers around her, the echo of a Bokoblin horn, their chirpy cries, and yelling. She knew her people were under attack, yet.. she wasn't quite afraid. She had run every day of her life, and this was nothing new. She wasn't sad. These people had hurt her every day; when she realized that she was trapped in the alley by the fire, she just sat back down, contently listening to the sounds of the villagers as they died. It might have been wrong, but.. their screams made her heart beat faster, and for the first time in a long while... she actually felt happy, justified.

But then a darkened silhouette appeared beyond the glare of flame; she saw the man Minkin standing at the opening to the alley. He had clearly seen her as well, even despite the rushing heat against his face. She ducked into a corner in fear, her eyes looking up to see an immense blade in his hand. She wouldn't have been afraid if he had come at her with rocks or canes, but.. the way he looked at her, she knew he meant to kill her. She didn't know why Minkin wanted to kill her. He had always been so nice to her before, as though he were the only man who had any shred of kindness in his heart.

The towering man walked through the flames, hissing in pain as he did so, but his eyes gleamed with the anticipation of bloodshed, the pain of little consequence. Rubie knew that moment that she would die, and she squeaked softly in fear, tears welling up in her eyes. But the situation only grew ever more dire and confounding. Another creature appeared on the other side of the flame; its sudden appearance took Minkin's attention off of Rubie, and he turned to face the wall of flame once more.

The creature on the other side was, in appearance, a carnal beast, a monster with jet black flesh, patched in browns and grays that were almost too dark to see in the fire's light, but his skin gleamed reflectively, metallic, and white banding seemed to glow off of him, as luminous as the moon. He sauntered through the fire as easily as Minkin, easier, in fact, the fire almost appeared to wince away from the creature, as if the very flame was the one who felt the pain of the contact. The creature then bared his fangs at Minkin as Minkin lifted the sword to strike the creature, but the sword stopped before hitting, as if held away by some otherworldly force. It was just the same as watching somebody try to force two magnets of the same charge against one another; they repelled impossibly. The sword would not strike the feral being, no matter how Minkin tried.

Finally, the monstrous creature took Minkin's very head in a clawed hand, and he forced the human being against a wall, applying pressure to Minkin's skull until the tiniest crack could be heard. Minkin screamed in agony just before his head was crushed completely, as easily as an overly ripe fruit.

Rubie had watched the entire scene, in such immense terror that she was frozen. It was almost as if she had hoped so strongly that the world would forget she existed, she, herself, had forgotten her own existence, right up until the feral creature's glowing, white eyes turned to her, and he began to stride in her direction, his feet clanking heavily against the bricks beneath.

Rubie curled into a tight ball in the corner; she now was regretting the pleasure she felt in hearing her fellow villagers die, if only because she feared her own agonizing end. Tears streamed down her face, and her breath poured out in panicked pants, the vision of Minkin's skull being crushed the only thing she could see in her mind, and she just knew that she was about the die the same way. Quietly, she began to chant to herself, '..Go away, monster.. Go away, monster...'

-clank-

-clank-

- clank-

- clank-

The sound was resounding as the creature approached, and Rubie jolted at each footstep. Each time it became louder, though she continued to chant to herself in panic.

-clank-

-clank-

'Go away, monster'

-clank-

-clank-

'Go away monster'

-clank-

The monster was surely within arm's reach, and then, silence..

Rubie lifted her head, thinking she would be killed the moment she laid eyes upon the waiting creature, who was toying with her. She lifted her head, and her gaze, finding that, instead of that monstrous creature, now somebody completely different stood before her.

In the light of the flame consuming the village, she looked up to lay her gaze upon an ethereal being of glistening, pale, silver skin, and white hair that gently danced against one side of the creature's face, the heat of the fire billowing around him. That same hot rush softly moved a cloak of velvetty crimson, the flames glinting on the satin underside of the draped material, captured wonderfully in the golden hue of diamonds that vividly, royally burst out from the red-wine coloration. The rest of this otherworldly being was clad in soft white, as flush to his frame as his very skin.

Rubie was still afraid, if only because one single hint of darkness remained- The cruel eyes that looked upon her, coldly watching her, as if they were weighing her worth. She looked up, courageously meeting this beautiful creature's gaze, yet the way his eyes watched her caused tears to rush down her face again. He looked at her in the same way the other villagers did- with scorn that was hidden behind a mask of neutrality. She turned away, finally, not wanting to see him judging her, and reflecting on how very worthless she must have been. She whimpered softly into her hands, wanting this being to leave her be.

"In your short period of life," the creature spoke, his voice toneless and sultry, like the bored purr of a Cheshire feline, "you've known more pain than any of these other pitiful mortals."

His movement was graceful, and fluid; Rubie didn't know from watching, but she could hear the delicate flutter of his tails as they descended with his body. He came to crouch before her, the cloaking that covered his upper body laying against the ground like a lush puddle of rippled blood, thick and crimson. Rubie was forced to look up, and those waves of crimson were the first things she perceived as her head was forced up, and she felt the soft caress of gloved, white hands on her face. His large, yet elegant hand did not relent, did not release the girl, and despite her wariness, she lifted her eyes to see his own; they were just as she had seen before- the stark, unfeeling, black eyes, like those of a snake.

She trembled, and whimpered in his grasp, yet he smirked at her, prickling with joy, surely, knowing that he could crush her like a tender flower at any moment. Instead, though, his fingers gently traced the child-like curve of her cheek, the colorless material of his gloves so impossibly soft that Rubie found herself nuzzling into the touch, the first kind touch she could ever remember feeling.

The ethereal being indulged the girl for a few seconds more, but eventually cupped her chin tightly, very serious. He addressed her in a calm, soothing purr, explaining that she had been cursed in her very existence, and that unlike the rest of these filthy mortals, she deserved to have the pain taken away, if only because she already understood agony vividly enough.

And then, with such a distorted ring of affection, he confessed, "I'm going to kill you now."

Rubie panicked all over again, writhing and squirming to escape, and she whimpered pitifully at having her ease of trust used and shattered within the same few moments. She found that she could not escape, though, because the creature tightened his grip on her, and when she refused to cease in her struggle, he gathered her up with more speed than she could even perceive.

Her entire frame rested upon his knees, her back against his front, his hand large and strong enough to swallow a large potion of her middle and her tiny chest. She was bound so tightly by his hold that she couldn't flail, all she could do was arch her neck away, and hang her head in fearful weeping. Her body heaved with her tears, breath passing in and out of her in shivers, and for the first time in a long while, she realized how emaciated she really was, as it felt as though the creatures' fingers had laced themselves directly into the furrows between her small ribs.

"Please.. don't kill me," she pleaded.

"Don't be afraid, Rubie," he whispered, his head lowered near enough that his breath was warm against the back of her neck, and it fluttered the auburn stands of her hair. "You should realize that life, itself, is causing you more suffering than death will. When you die, you'll be given a new life- You should relish that thought, and relinquish the tormented existence you've held so fast to."

"I don't want to die.. I'm scared," the tiny orphan cried.

"There won't be any pain," the creature cooed gently, "It will be as if you've simply fallen asleep... and when you wake up, things will be better, won't they? You won't be hated simply for existing anymore, will you?"

It sounded outlandish, but.. This being's gentleness was almost enough to ease the orphan girl in his arms. Suddenly, she saw the meaning in his words, and felt calm enough to trust them. If she died, even if it was momentarily painful, to wake up to a family that loved her would be worth it, because.. that was less painful than her life now. The girl choked on a sob, her cries pushing from her loudly, all of her pent up sorrow exploding from within her, needing an escape. Smoothly, a hand lifted to stroke along her head, soothing her sadness, and she contentedly allowed herself to be petted, until finally she was completely calm. When at last she was settled, she did not speak.. she nodded her head. She resigned herself, ready to die.

The hand upon her head slowly slithered down the side of her face, those soft fingers caressing her cheek before tucking themselves beneath her chin, and winding around to the other side of her face; two fingers laid against her neck, one right at the juncture where her jaw connected to her skull, the last one on her cheek, while the creature's thumb pushed into the soft flesh of the cheek opposite, and he held her firmly, but not tightly enough to even bruise her skin.

And in one single moment, the tinge of fear in Rubie's heart flared up again, and her basic instinct to live, to persist, screamed through her mind with a volume that was resounding. "Wait..," she whimpered, "..don't."

The creature sighed his disappointment, but vanished at that moment, doing as Rubie asked, leaving her alive. She goes on to wonder about this moment of her life. She feels that the spirit from inside that sword showed her more compassion than anybody had ever shown her. Yet, at the same time, she does not doubt the evil of his being. She sometimes wonders if he had come to her that night just to play with her, to tease her. He let her live so willingly, when he had clearly believed that it was more humane to end her existence. Even so, he let her go on living her horrible life without persisting any further.

::

Rubie never doubted this creatures' evil. She had seen creatures of darkness slaughter, yet they always seemed to do so without any hesitation or thought, as if the weight and value of a life had no meaning and they simply couldn't understand. The sword spirit, that night, looked upon her, he measured her value, he showed himself to be perfectly aware of what it meant to take a life or to leave it be. He showed that he possessed the perfect capability to consider his actions, whether right or wrong, and still commit acts of brutality and murder.

Rubie knew other creatures of the same measure of evil, and it was not the savage Bokoblins or the feral creatures beyond the borders of her village... Instead, it was the people within. The mortals, who could just as much measure right and wrong, yet still acted cruelly..

So in the end, while the sword was undoubtedly evil, could it be enabled in its darkness without the darkness of mortals?../

:: ::

Bright, vivid colors, all washed together like the most distinct, fantastical dream, yet so fresh and alive; that was what Skyloft looked like after spending such a long time staring at the smoldering reds and oranges of Eldin Province. Skyloft was crisp and clean and free of soot and smoke. It smelled pure and sweet; it was so very welcoming. The sun shone brightly, instead of being blotted out by heavy, smoky clouds, and in some way, it was like emerging from a layer of Hell and stepping straight into the Goddess's own private paradise.

However.. none of that was even slightly comforting. None of that consoled the returned Hero's breaking spirit. He'd hoped that arriving back home would serve to blot out the horrible events he wanted to leave behind him, burning in the fires of Eldin Volcano, but as he came to land upon the floating isle he called home, it all seemed to weigh on him that much harder.

He was physically exhausted from the entire ordeal; it had been a strain from start to finish. He felt that he hadn't rested himself properly since he came upon Ghirahim and fought him in the seclusion of the forest, engulfed by that pond of gore.

Link was certain that he was just as mentally and emotionally drained; he would surmise that the physical fatigue caused a more rapid drain in his spirits but the sheer amount of emotional stress he'd been under over the past few days would have been enough to drive anybody to their breaking point.

Yes, if there were a breaking point, Link was teetering on the brink of it. He was far too near that horrible edge, afraid that even the tiniest push was all it would take for him to shatter.

As the blonde male headed toward the Knight Academy, his pace was nothing greater than an unhurried walk; his energy was too sapped for him to bolt, and every now and again, his boot scraped the ground because he was almost too tired to even pick up his feet. In his mind, he was in the most tremendous rush, wishing he could just zip up to his bed with the simplest thought, dreading each and every step he had to take, thinking he may just collapse wherever.

The young Hero was passing by the hovering height of the tent-like structure of the bazaar, sauntering past beneath the sidewalks that encircled the Skyloft Marketplace, when the chime of laughter met his ears and he happened to casually glance in that direction. Instinctively, his senses were alert, even while he was completely exhausted, and his attention drifted to anything that was enough to capture it, no matter whether Link wished to regard his surroundings or not.

And there, directly outside of the Bazaar, stood a group of Link's own fellow Skyloftians; most that made up this group were people he'd known from the academy, all gathered and immersed in dutiful discussions of their futures. He couldn't make out their words, but they all seemed so joyous and filled with high-hopes. _Right_, Link was thinking, _they're probably still working on building homes on the surface._

Instantly, Link's gaze was drawn to the two most familiar figures in the crowd, though their backs were turned to him as they stood facing the inside of the circle of other Skyloftians, deeply engrossed in their planning. Groose and Zelda; Link could pick them out in a crowd, no matter that he couldn't see their faces, or that they were surrounded by other people. At that moment Link stopped, considering going over, if only to let his friends know he'd returned safely.

..but just as the teen began to take his first step in that direction, he halted, as though he'd been jerked back by an invisible, restraining force. His eyes had lowered to observe one detail that somehow served to stop him in his tracks, one detail that had entrapped him and left him frozen in this moment in time; even as closely as Groose stood to Zelda, in the tiny space between them, it was still clear enough to see- Zelda's hand was delicately tucked into Groose's own.

Link stared, his oceanic eyes suddenly vacant, and unseeing. All that was visible to him was that one second of realization, as if nothing else in this world existed, and his mind had gone blank otherwise.

The teen's frail consciousness underwent something at that moment- It was as if an eruption of absolute devastation had occurred deep inside him, and he was incapable of thinking, of feeling, of responding, of anything. He hardly acknowledged when another member of the group appeared to take notice of him from a distance and turned to Zelda, uttering inaudible words that were lost in the space between the group and the lone Hero.

It was when Zelda's dainty hand slid out of Groose's grasp and she turned to see Link standing in the distance that Link awakened from the spell he appeared to be under. He quietly blinked, the only shift in his otherwise outwardly apathetic expression. He watched his friend, his closest, most beloved friend, turn toward him, her golden hair and the delicate folds of her skirt twirling with her gentle movement, flowing around her in perfect grace. He watched as a warm, grateful smile came over her pink lips, and she lifted her hand to wave happily to him, greeting him with fondness and familiarity and probably some degree of relief in knowing he had returned.

Yet as he stood, so very, very distant from Zelda and all of his peers, Link lowered his gaze and simply pretended not to notice that she'd seen him here at all, as if he hadn't even been here... because clearly, he wasn't.

Then, more hurriedly than he'd thought he could even manage, he rushed off toward the Academy.

:: ::

Link had probably only slept for a few hours; it was a short and somehow restless nap, and while he was tempted to stay in bed, the smell of smoke lingering on his skin had caused his head to ache as he slept, which now made him completely incapable of getting comfortable.

For this reason, despite his grogginess, Link trudged upstairs from his room to the bath. He had no idea how late it was, but things seemed quiet and peaceful, which was average for Skyloft. The corridors of the Knight Academy were vacant and the silence soothed his anxious heart. He wasn't exactly in the mood for idle chatter at the moment; all he wished to do was wash himself before returning to bed. Link doubted that his presence was enough to disturb anybody but he kept his gait slow and stealthy, nonetheless.

The young Hero opened up the door to the bath as he reached it, stepping just beyond the threshold, and he clicked the door softly shut behind himself, one finger depressing the button of the lock on the knob.

The air in the bath area was humid and very warm and it smelled of the sweet perfume of various selections of scented soaps that all the different members of Knight Academy used. Still, Link had yet to escape the scent of smoke that clung to him, masking the faint metallic tinge of blood; it was disgusting.

Standing before the shelves just near the door, Link stripped himself down slowly, his movements sluggish from fatigue. He had already discarded his tunic and chainmaile in his room, as well as exchanging his heavy boots for sandals that easily slipped on and off of his feet. Now, he slid his footwear off once again, letting his naked feet softly patter against the cool, stone tile of the floor. He tugged his white shirt over his head in a single movement, stashing it messily on one of the shelves, then he quickly moved on to his pants, unbuttoning the garment so that he easily pushed it and everything else down to form a puddle of cloth around his ankles. He stepped out from the pile he had created on the floor, and bent over to lift it from the ground, bundling everything up, and placing it on the shelf where his shirt laid.

The teen gathered what he needed for bathing from one of the baskets, holding the supplies in his arms as he turned to walk toward the tub.

The bathing room was silent, aside from the patter of Link's feet as he approached the tub; the inside of his head was just the same at this moment, pure silence that came from the way Link had dammed up his thought processes and his emotions, though he knew it wouldn't be long before his resolve crumpled and the inevitable flood rushed forth to drown him.

Link crawled up onto the edge of the tub, placing the soap he had chosen by his side. A small wooden bucket had been left nearby and the teen reached for it, dipping it in the tub, and filling it with water to be poured over himself, to wet his body. Once he was dripping wet, listening to the pitter-pat of water flowing off of his body and down to the floor, he took the soap he'd brought to the tub and a washrag, lathering the soft material with the sweetly-scented soap. He quickly scrubbed down every inch of his frame, until he was sure that he was cleansed of the filth that he hadn't properly rinsed away before tonight.

Once more, the teen dipped the bucket in the tub, filling it with water, and he poured it over himself, rinsing the suds from his body. Only after he completed the initial washing did he slowly slide himself into the tub. He dipped his feet into the hot bathwater, feeling it burn against his skin, though he steadily lowered until his legs were fully engulfed. He stopped and slowed for a moment as his tender rump came in contact with the water, but he eased himself down, his body tense from the sudden heat around him, and he bit his lip slightly.

The temperature always was uncomfortably hot at first, but he found that once he was up to his chin in the tub, he adjusted easily by simply sitting still. The water greatly soothed his soreness, the aching stiffness that he felt all over from the arduous tasks that laid behind him. The warm water cleansed and soothed him physically, but..as he sat still listening to the solitude surrounding him, and the occasional drip from the spout that poured into the tub, his emotional distress refused to allow itself to be ignored any longer.

'_What happened?_,' he was asking himself. Just a few days prior, the last time he had seen Zelda, she had been waiting with him, filled to the brim with both worry yet with belief in her friend to always return, to never give up. She had been the one to greet him with delicate embraces, the one to comfort him at the end of his burdens, the one to _wait_ for him.

Yet now it seemed she was finally finished with waiting, as well as worrying. (No, no, Link couldn't think she just didn't care; he knew better than that.)

But... Yes, he realized that he had grown distant from everybody. The journey that laid behind him set him apart from everybody he knew, it made him _different _from them, and even though they regarded him as a hero, he had only now figured out that he was just as isolated as ever. Nobody could understand him nor could he understand in turn. The toils of his journey had changed him into something that no longer _fit_ alongside everybody else in Skyloft.

And Zelda.. _Zelda_.. Link was no longer the boy she knew. He was damaged. He was dead to her; surely that was it. Despite the troubles she, herself, faced in learning that she was the incarnation of the Goddess, Zelda was still more an average Skyloftian than Link, because Link had been the one to shoulder the burden of becoming her Hero. He had been the one to temper himself in endless bloodshed, all for her... and all for what? Now those changes could never be undone and he was useless, unwanted, too tarnished to be the one to receive her affections.

Her affections; that was what he wanted, right? As he reclined himself against the back of the tub, he mused on the relationship he had shared with Zelda all this time. He wondered if maybe he had taken her for granted, if he had come to expect her to stand by his side no matter what, simply because he had done the same for her? Until now, Link had never even contemplated the idea of their relationship escalating any further than one of friendship, and maybe that was just it; he had been too at ease, too sure that she only had eyes for him and only ever would be there waiting, just for him. He was too complacent, too silent, too weak.

In a momentary flash of anger that stemmed from his mounted self-pity, the teen slapped the water violently, causing it to splash against the wall opposite, and to spray lightly against his cheeks, dripping down like tears. He lowered his head after letting his arm fall at his side, his chin and the tips of his bangs touching the water.

Link had never considered that his friend may eventually shift her interests to anybody else. He had selfishly hoarded her attention all this time, without ever giving any sign that he cared for anything more than her arm's-length companionship. She was his closest, dearest friend, his only friend, ever since that dark, haunting time that hung in his memory, like a shroud of cold, lonely, emptiness. She had been there for him, the beam of light that broke the pointlessness of his existence, and now that he knew she had finally moved on, and her use for him had expired, he suddenly wanted nothing else, and nobody else but her.

His knees curled inward, so that they arose from the water with a soft rippling sound. His skin was red and steam drifted up from his dampened flesh, but he pulled his knees tightly against his chest, as if they could fill the emptiness growing inside. His heart was breaking; he knew because he could feel a horrible pain in his chest, a pain that was worse than any other he'd ever encountered, because he couldn't ignore it or soothe it away with a potion.

The teen vaguely wondered if he would be left alone all over again. Had Zelda only met him out of a necessity of fate? Now that he was no longer required, would she let him go just as easily?

Maybe Link was just incapable of love. Maybe he was too emotionally and psychologically torn apart to comprehend love or express it properly. Maybe he was just so shattered, so damaged that there simply was nothing left to love in him.

He tightly wrapped his arms around his knees, biting his lip in frustrated pain as his body trembled and he fought to keep himself from screaming aloud, from shredding apart his own throat in the violent volume of his heartbroken cries. He just sat quaking in the tempest of emotions tearing him steadily apart from the inside. In this moment, all he could reflect upon were the instances of closeness he shared with his friend, all of the times he and Zelda had spent inseparably together.

Their first meeting seemed as though it was only yesterday; she came wandering warily into the dark home where Link had been nursing his wounds all alone, without a soul in the world to look after him. But thereafter, all the warm, comfortable embraces they shared had consoled and healed the boy's lonely heart. Zelda's warm, sweet words, her constant gestures of affection, the touch of her soft, gentle hands... Link couldn't stand to give any of that up, and yet.. what could he even do?

'..how cliche,' came the faintest whisper in the surrounding silence, the sudden sound startling the blonde male, no matter how soft it had been. 'You're in love with her.'

Any flow of breath was immediately caught in the teen's throat, whereas his pulse had jumped to a feverish intensity, thumping so fervently that he could feel it in his temples and hear it ringing in his ears. He could not doubt the presence of the voice he knew he had heard, but he held tightly to some hope that he was losing it or that the water temperature and his exhaustion were just getting to him.

Once more the soundless setting was disturbed by the clearest ring of naked feet pattering against the stone tile. In a slow, yet steady saunter, which Link could see in his mind coming paired with the ever hypnotic swing of his unwanted company's hips, he listened to the toll of another being approaching in a relaxed, unhurried fashion.

The deep blue gaze of the teen's eyes was plastered to the murky yet reflective surface of the bathwater, paying no notice at all to his invasive company; he would pretend that the soft resounding echo of his taunting voice was purely imaginary, as well as the shivers the young Hero received at the feeling of cool fingertips smoothing over the shell of his ear and the nape of his neck, and the soft, mockingly affectionate tug at his blonde hair. He would pretend this wasn't real, even though he could still make out the blurry reflection of the one standing behind him in the dull, makeshift mirror of the water's surface.

With an edge of bitterness that was clearly apparent, the teen addressed the bothersome entity that had come purely to antagonize him, "What would you even know of love?"

'Ohh?,' came a disbelieving and seemingly affronted voice. With feline grace, the one who had come to accompany the teen slid himself up to perch upon the edge of the tub and he examined the water as if in doubt that it was to his standard of purity. His hesitation was only momentary, and he soon slid feet-first into the body of steaming bathwater, letting the murky depths slowly engulf his naked frame as he purred in pleasure at the sudden warmth surrounding him.

'You think I know nothing of love?,' uttered the spirit in a soft, sultry, teasing tone as his leg purposefully bumped against Link's own under the water. This bothersome act sent the afflicted teenager shifting calmly to the other side of the tub, despite his edgy mood.

While Link would have liked to ignore the one now accompanying him in the tub, the soft sound of the spirit's hand idly splashing at the water's surface in a bored manner drew the younger male's attention. Slowly, the teen's gaze lifted from the water that was being rippled by a single, elegant hand, to unwittingly catch sight of the cheshire grin imprinted upon those pale lips. Though he was pretending to wait patiently for a response, the spirit's expression betrayed his expectant attitude, and with a sigh of defeat, Link gave in to him.

"I don't know how you could possibly understand," Link bitterly responded, the sound of his voice making his exhaustion as clear as his conflicted state of mind.

'Why ever would that be?,' the spirit spoke in a bored tone, outstretching his leg as he lifted one foot above the water, examining the appearance of his toes.

The complete and utter obviousness of what should have been the answer to the sword spirit's question served to cause the teen a second of confusion; how could he not know?

"..because of how you are?," the teen stated, referring to Ghirahim's heedless acts of cruelty as well as his general attitude. However, though this seemed perfectly reasonable, it was also little more than assumption, and the nervous teen saw it fit to add to what he'd already said, "...also, you _are_ just a sword. Fi didn't really have human emotion, eith-"

"I'm nothing like her!," Ghirahim snapped in sudden, unbridled fury, this sore subject clearly something to be avoided. But just as always, he managed to stifle his anger a moment later and went on pretending he was dignified instead of vicious.

The verbal mishap and subsequent interruption left Link in silence; he had no care to converse with this particular being nor anybody else, so Ghirahim's anger gave him the perfect excuse to close himself off all over again. His gaze returned to the surface of the water, staring blankly into nothing.

Yet while Link was left feeling awkward and anxious, the sword spirit went on enjoying the relaxing warmth of the bath as if this were a perfectly appropriate time for him to be happily indulging himself. With a calm, delighted sigh, the spirit let his head slowly lean back into the water, sinking deeply enough that his ears were beneath the surface and the water pooled around his face. His spine arched in this position, his neck held in a graceful curve while his chest was pushed forward.

Ghirahim relaxed himself in this posture, no matter how exposed his most vulnerable physical weakpoint happened to be. It drew Link's eyes upward, the curious blues studying the central area of the spirit's sternum, which was free of any marring or imperfection, though he'd been injured there many times recently. With close attention that was purely accidental, the teen found himself watching as the spirit's chest softly expanded and contracted with his breath; something about this, the way Ghirahim flaunted his own weakness, it was as though the sword spirit were otherwise beckoning the teen to cause him some kind of harm though Link was presently incapable.. It was audacious, mocking. This must have been one great, amusing game for him.

When the spirit began to raise himself back up, straightening his posture, his wet, white hair clung to his skull whereas it typically fell against his cheek on one side. The water trailed down the entity in narrow, winding streams, tracing the contours of his body; it trickled along the elegant column of his neck, flowing over the rise of his collarbones and into the dips and ridges of his defined, lean musculature. Link's eyes followed the snaking trails unconsciously up, drawn immediately to the mysterious side of Ghirahim's face that was now completely unveiled. The hard, black marking upon the spirit's left cheek caught Link's attention first, the bold stamp of darkness a stark contrast against the spirit's silvery complexion. Next the boy's eyes migrated to the spirit's left ear; he had never noticed before that it did not match his right, instead an abnormally small, rounded shape.

Then, though it felt as if Link had stared for an unacceptable amount of time, in just a few seconds, the teen averted his eyes; at the same time, Ghirahim turned his head, making the view of his normally hidden imperfection a bit less clear. It was plainly obvious to the teen that the spirit was aware that he'd been looking and as well that the spirit seemed insecure concerning this flaw. ..that was an odd notion for the younger male to wrap his head around. Ghirahim, insecure.

'..you should know,' the spirit quietly spoke up, 'I possess all of the emotions which she lacked.'

"What?," Link mumbled, having actually forgotten what they had been talking about previously, so it took him a second to realize what it was that the spirit was speaking of now. He blinked, confused, and the dark eyes of the being across from him turned more in his direction, returning a disdainful expression. "..oh," the teen uttered as he recalled the conversation, shrugging in a nonchalant manner, "...I don't know how that proves that you could understand something like love... you're probably too corrupted to feel it, so what would you know about it?"

'Everything she lacks, I possess, and everything I'm missing is within her,' he explained, much like a lecturer but with less patience, 'Keep that it mind and you'll be much less confused.'

This explanation was simplified for ease of comprehension, yet the young Hero wasn't content to simply accept it; it left him with questions that itched in a most irritating way for an answer. "Why?," he asked, looking up at Ghirahim with an expression that seemed to reflect the teen's lack of interest, though the look in his eyes was exceedingly inquisitive. "Why is this, I mean? ..that the two of you are opposites in every way."

Ghirahim groaned in annoyance, slipping himself down further into the water so that it lapped at his chin. For a change, his eyes now gazed downward, toward the murky water, and he inwardly considered whether or not he wished to continue this conversation. With a sigh, he raised himself up again, speaking in a tone that made his bitter disliking for this explanation plainly clear. 'She and I..,' he gestured here, filling a sudden silence as he determined precisely how he wished to word this, '..I don't like to say 'siblings'. She is my counterpart, she was created from me.'

"..what?," Link breathed his question, almost completely baffled at what he was hearing. It was difficult enough for him to grasp that Ghirahim had been created by the Goddess Hylia; trying to imagine Fi having been created from him was practically implausible.

'She and I used to be one,' the sword spirit bitterly explained, '..but Hylia split us into two beings, leaving everything she found 'undesirable' within me, so that her sword would be.. more 'to her liking', I suppose.'

Though Ghirahim plainly explained what he believed was the logic of the Goddess, and though he seemed to fully understand the reason for what was done, he still bristled in resent. It was because of this, and how the sword spirit seemed to slump back against the wall of the tub in the same way a pouting child might, that Link believed he was beginning to see from where the spirit's endless fury and hatred was being drawn.

Underneath it all, perhaps this loathsome creature was just an abandoned child, cursing his fate and forcing his suffering down the throats of anybody who crossed his path. Fate had dealt him an unfortunate, unfair hand, and so he made it his personal mission to destroy the lives of others. The teen could relate himself in this way, he could understand the confusion and anger that came with questioning why events plaid out the way they did. Too often the younger male wondered if his parents had been taken from him because he'd done something wrong, because he'd been bad in some way, yet the longer these questions went unanswered, the more he began to conclude that there was absolutely no reason for him to have suffered and that life had been cruel and unfair to him for no real purpose. From there it was so easy to wonder, 'If I was made to suffer for no reason at all, then perhaps I would be happier if others could feel my pain.'

These thoughts brought Link not a single shred of comfort now, instead only dragging him back to the dilemma he was presently facing. He shook his head, wanting to push it to the back of his mind for now; allowing himself to contemplate the sword spirit instead served, at least, to take his mind off everything else.

"..so," Link began again, "..you can feel love and Fi couldn't?" This did seem to be what the sword spirit was implying. Fi had been seemingly unable to perceive the concept of human emotion clearly, and according to Ghirahim's explanation, he should have been able to express anything Fi could not, "..but why would the Goddess want the spirit of her own sword to be incapable of love?"

Nonchalant, the sword spirit's broad shoulders were raised in a momentary shrug, expressing his lack of knowledge concerning Hylia's definite reasoning for anything. However, he had come to live by assumption; he was a logical creature, and he could surmise, though he also didn't pretend to be fully certain. 'I'm sure Fi was capable of mixed feelings of compassion and affection. Truly pathetic, if you ask me,' he laughed, 'what a confused creation she must have been.'

'But yes,' Ghirahim continued, '..Hylia left the ability to 'love' in me. For her sword, such an emotion would merely prove to be a distraction, or a possible means of corruption. That is what I would conclude, anyway.'

"Corruption?," the teen repeated, echoing the word in a confused tone, "..how could the ability to love corrupt?"

Ghirahim's voice responded quickly in mock surprise that was both playful and burlesque. 'You don't know?' A soft, velvety chuckle laced with subtle mockery resounded from the spirit's throat as he looked upon the teen with an uncanny, predatory gaze, his pale lips upturning in an amused smile. It seemed, to him, there was nothing more adorable than this sky child's naivety and nothing more delicious than breaking his reality.

With an elegantly stalking movement, Ghirahim now slid himself across the open space of the tub to the other side, the water rippling around his silvery frame but making just the slightest trickle of noise. That slight trickle erupted into sharp, chaotic splashing when the elder creature raised his arms so that his hands pressed to the tile of the tub walls on either side of the teen's frame.

The noise of the water streaming off of the spirit's upright frame and his raised arms slowly dulled again to a trickle and erratic dripping, but it was still enough to drown out the teen's wary voice as he uttered a word of protest to the sudden closeness, not wanting to alert any sleeping classmates.

'Stop,' Link had said, but he hardly even heard himself and so he nary expected Ghirahim to heed this request. He bit his lip, detesting this invasion of his space yet not knowing how to deter the other, nor did Link wish to push him, as that would require the teen to openly place his hands on him. This was entirely an instant of panic, and the teen could feel the spirit folding his legs beneath himself on either side of the younger male's legs, sliding unabashedly atop his thighs.

Suddenly Link was vividly aware of the other male's backside resting in full contact with his thighs; the spirit's weight was placed entirely upon where he was seated, so that his toned rump pressed into the younger male's legs, and Link could regretfully imagine every detail from the feeling of it against him.

Turning his head away in embarrassment, and the absence of any thought to react otherwise, Link only made himself that much more vulnerable, unconsciously inviting the spirit to lean in nearer, so that his lips could be placed almost flush to the teen's pointed ear.

'I think the answer to your question should be obvious at this point, shouldn't it?,' the spirit whispered, the purr of his voice quietly gleeful with an underlying giggle of pure malice. 'Love is selfish. Those who fall in love cannot help but long to possess the one they hold dear. This passion is the very root of so much cruelty, don't you see?'

Punctuating his explanation with soft, secretive laughter, the spirit made his point entirely clear, as did he make it even clearer what he was referring to as he continued, 'To love any person romantically is to open oneself up to the potential for jealously, betrayal..,' he paused, letting one hand slither from Link's bare shoulder, up his neck, inducing a shiver at the contact just before the teen's head was forcibly turned and his gaze was directed up to meet the spirit's own, '..or resentment for love that is _unrequited._'

Ghirahim's words deeply cut the teen, burrowing beneath his skin toward his tormented heart, drawing back the visualization of Zelda's hand tucked in Groose's own. It filled the watery pools of Link's piercing, blue eyes with hurt, and Ghirahim stared down into the glassy surface, straight to the shattering depths of the boy's heart; he admired the beauty of the Hero who was steadily breaking, one little piece at a time. Magnificence was the word for all this boy's stolen innocence, the undeserved punishment of his pure, untainted soul.

All that Link saw as he was made to look up into the abyss of the spirit's dark eyes was the endless stretch of emptiness, consuming him. Something about that fathomless, black realm intensified the reminder of Link's loneliness, as if the boy had momentarily come to believe that the rest of his life was to be as empty as those gazing eyes. He furrowed his brows, confined to the point of feeling trapped or endangered somehow, and needing to seek escape. Raising his arms, he pushed his hands against the spirit's chest, succeeding it reclaiming a few inches of space, but not nearly enough.

"Get off of me," Link demanded in a quiet but serious tone, which Ghirahim responded to by simply stating, 'I'm not finished,' and pushing his weight back against the palms that rested on his chest.

'...all of this generally results in anger, hatred, vengeance, or just the desire to completely remove their beloved person from this world entirely, as if to prevent anybody from ever, ever having them. Understand, Link?'

"Shut up!," the boy insisted.

'You haven't decided which course of action will best alleviate your own suffering, but you know that you're far too damaged for her.'

Here, the teen's struggling ceased. He kept his hands pressed into the solid surface of the spirit's chest, his fingernails biting against his flesh, leaving reddened crescent marks. Those words.. He couldn't endure them. He didn't want to hear them. The teen tried to shake his head, his wet, blonde bangs dancing back and forth against his forehead with his movement.

'You don't even know if you truly _want_ a romantic relationship so much as you want her attention and her company, and to stay as you always have, without ever moving forward.. you selfish boy.' Here, Ghirahim chuckled, but softened his tone to a seemingly sympathetic purr as he continued, "..however, you also know that if you try to interfere, you'll be stealing away the potential happiness of your other friend as well. You want to do what is selfless. You want to make sure that everybody is happy, and like the giving creature that you are, you'll quietly hide your pain so that they can be happy.'

As the spirit's voice faded into silence, Link sat motionless beneath him, hardly even aware that he was still breathing, silenced even in his mind.

Ghirahim's fingertips tenderly traced the curve of the younger male's cheek, cupping it delicately in his palm as he smiled down at the boy and softly breathed the last of his statement, '...you can stop contemplating it now. I've told you precisely what your choice will be without you needing to expend any further thought.'

Link hadn't wanted to listen to any of this; he wished to ignore it, or at least to push it to some place in the back of his mind where it would be forgotten. Ghirahim was a creature of cruelty who absolutely couldn't be trusted, and yet.. as hard as Link tried to deny his words, the young teen could only conclude that the real reason for his resistance was because what he was being told was the _truth_, the truth that was too impossibly painful to face... this is what made it most effectively devastating, and that was why Ghirahim had gone out of his way to put it in the teen's face.

_He was right.._ _Ghirahim was right.._

With a morose sigh, the boy's upper body bonelessly slumped against the tiled wall behind him, the back of his head striking the solid surface with a soft thump. He closed his eyes as he sat there quietly, but he could not prevent the escape of lonely tears that silently found their way down his cheeks.

The broken Hero had not one single thought left in his mind as he wept in secrecy; he no longer considered the vile spirit's motives, nor his own hopeless dilemmas. His mind, like the still atmosphere that surrounded him, was silent, and just as he'd been instructed, he contemplated nothing more. He didn't consider whether Ghirahim did this out of spite, or to gain some sort of advantage or simply for whatever twisted pleasure he got out of the pain of others.

But despite how he shrouded himself in dark, silent solitude, Link still felt the weight of the spirit as it slid that much nearer atop his thighs. A soft, surprised gasp just barely defined the sudden inhale taken through Link's lips as they parted and the skin between his brows wrinkled in distaste. The uncomfortable closeness was suddenly very much like the spirit's choices in clothing; one surface hugged the other incredibly close, unacceptably close, so that every inch and every detail of even the spirit's most intimate parts were almost fully clear.

Yet feeling the teen's soft, bare flesh pressed fully to his own seemed not nearly enough, and as though drunk on or addicted to the foreign sensation of Link's unsteadied emotional state, Ghirahim lowered his head nearer to the teen's tear stained visage for another bold taste, bringing the soft pale of his lips down against the boy's.

A quiet noise of aversion, indistinctly either a growl or a whine, echoed from the young Hero's throat, unable to escape his tightly-sealed lips. It was the only plea he could manage as Ghirahim's lips felt to consume his own, yet it was wholly uncertain why he even assumed any kind of plea would be heeded; the spirit surely broke him for the purpose of having his way with what shattered pieces remained. Link wasn't terribly surprised.

The young Hero again raised his hands, softly pushing against Ghirahim's chest in the hopes of reclaiming some of his own space, short fingernails biting against the spirit's silvery skin, unable to do any damage, aside from leaving reddened trails, without breaking skin.

Yet still, the spirit seemed to shiver as the younger male's fingers trailed along the center of his chest, near the sensitive area where his core resided, though Link tried to scratch at it in an attempt to halt these undesired advances. The most this action accomplished was bringing about a soft moan from the spirit, as though he were actually enjoying the contact, so Link's fingers curled instead to form fists, pushing back with as much strength as he could presently muster to show his utter disinterest in this situation; the only result was that Ghirahim fought him that much harder, stubbornly insistent, until Link ceased to struggle beneath him.

Falling completely unresponsive, the young Skyloftian boy attempted to passively ignore the sword spirit, though he could feel the soft surface of Ghirahim's pale lips pushing against his, the spirit's mouth opening just barely, so to capture Link's lips between his own, to feel them, moistening the kiss as the tip of his tongue traced the delectably forbidden seam of the little Hero's sweet, sweet mouth.

Link was uncertain if his lack of participation was what truly disallowed anything more in the end, or if Ghirahim just wished to slowly savor his suffering in that cruel, methodical way, but nevertheless, the spirit went no further.

However, the spirit was far too enraptured in the perfection of this moment to retreat, either. His naked hands trailed slowly up the wet surface of his new Master's body, ending upon his shoulders as the spirit rested his head on the edge of the tub with his nose pressed into the young male's damped, blonde locks. His body relaxed in this position, draped over Link's own as Link also rested against the back of the tub.

The Hero was completely rigid at first, though he was too exhausted to resist or even tremble, and his emotions were too warped for him to even perceive nervousness or fear. He just.. didn't care. And as Ghirahim remained still, seemingly resting, Link, too, relaxed, finding that while he disliked Ghirahim's presence, it was tolerable, if only because he'd become accustomed to it over all this time. Link could endure this, because at least the spirit had stopped speaking, and all the troubled, young Hero could hear was the soft sound of the spirit's breathing. He could feel Ghirahim's chest expanding and contracting with his breath, and the soft beating of the spirit's heart. It seemed strange, since this creature was not even human, nor mortal at all, though his body closely mimicked a human being's to a much greater degree than Fi had.

The Skyloftian lacked even the perseverance mentally to analyze it. He was just.. so tired, and didn't wish to be plagued with thoughts of Zelda any further. If anything, this wretched being's closeness had distracted Link's mind from his sorrows, and he allowed this to comfort him as he closed his eyes.

::

Perhaps an hour or even several hours had passed, but the boy was sure that somewhere in the silence of the Knight Academy's halls, there was a ticking clock that had reached deep into his psyche and managed to tick him into the waking world.

Link sat upright in the tub, his heart pounding much too rapidly in the realization that he'd fallen asleep. He still felt extremely tired. His eyelids were as heavy as his mind was hazy, but he quickly noticed one detail regardless of his grogginess- he was alone.

The young male stumbled awkwardly from the tub, drying himself though his skin felt incredibly pruny. He pulled on his sleep pants, then quietly skulked from the bathing chamber, pausing in the doorway to first look both ways down the hall, not even sure why he was bothering in being so secretive. With the way he was feeling, even if somebody was about at this hour and addressed him, he would likely just.. keep walking.

When the broken, young Hero reached the sanctuary of his room, he plopped down upon his bed, tangling himself in the blanket as though he wished to bind himself here and sleep forever.

::

A rather comfortable silence engulfed the young Skyloftian between the walls of his room. His blue eyes were focused and apathetic and his hand was steady as he tasked himself with painting a figurine of two Loftwings he had carved earlier today.

Link found this to be very relaxing. The smooth hardwood, once sanded down to a perfect finish, absorbed the paint like dye if it was at the right consistency. The boy could remember doing this since he was very young, finding that the concentration and the rhythmic motions had always soothed his mind and helped him cope with the difficulties of his childhood.

The atmosphere was broken, however, by the soft sound of knuckles rapping faintly against the young man's door.

"Come in," Link spoke up in a manner that was toneless but audible enough to be heard. Such was the proof when the door clicked open and the Hero raised his head to regard his visitor and there stood Zelda, her lovely features ever so subtly tainted by a melancholy sort of expression.

It glimmered in the depths of those crystalline eyes, so clear-blue you could see right into the girl. What was it she was feeling? Worry? Guilt perhaps? Link couldn't exactly place what thought was going through his long beloved friend's mind, though she knew with great certainty that something very serious was troubling him.

Even so- Zelda opted not to immediately bring her worries up, some part of her terrified that she was much too late to even intervene. It had been days and Link hadn't spoken a word to anybody since returning from the Eldin Province below. Instead, the delicate maiden quietly joined her friend on his cot, sitting closely by his side, though somewhere deep within herself, she sensed that this momentary physical closeness was all that remained and that her bond with Link had slipped through her fingers, despite everything they had been through. Such thoughts tightened her chest with worry and she felt her eyes sting as though they were contemplating tears.

Zelda's gaze fell upon her friend's hands, his fingers, and for a moment she watched him work on the tiny sculpture; it was of two Loftwings, and while one was already painted the color of the endless sky, he was in the process of painting the other a vibrant crimson. It seemed he had been thinking of her as well, which steadied her heart ever so slightly. Thankfully so, as Link decided at last to break the otherwise soundless way in which Zelda had greeted him.

"Have you come back to Skyloft for good this time?," he asked, his voice soft and devoid of emotion.

"I'm only back for a few days," she explained slowly, honestly a bit confused by her friend's assumptions. Had he forgotten their plans? "I'll return to the surface soon. I'm here to gather up the first group of people that are interested in moving down there now that things seem safe. And I'll need all the help I can get taking supplies down. Groose already finished up a few small houses. His building technique really has grown significantly. The houses are beautiful."

The young Goddess incarnate explained the birth of their new civilization on the surface with the kind of loving warmth one would expect from a new mother. Yet still, the fondness in her voice was stained by the quiet, delicate sound of an underlying sadness- she just couldn't understand why Link seemed as though he was unaffected by her great excitement. Hadn't her dreams burst exuberantly forth from her heart, which was so full of fascination and longing to see the world they had been denied so long, and infected Link with the very same desire? Did he not wish to be by her side as he had all of his life?

..he had long graduated the Knight Academy, yet he was still holed up in his room, like time had stopped. Why?

"You know," she began again, "Pipit and Karane are planning to move to the surface together. It's so sweet, I think," she laughed softly, "and.. If you'd like, you could go back to the surface. I really thought you wanted that, actually. To explore new sights, help establish our new village, make a home for yourself.."

"Yeah, maybe," the young Hero intoned, not at all removing his focus from his figurine, "..it'll be a lot more trouble to guard the Triforce down there, though, so I've just been keeping it safe up here for now. It's less trouble for you."

"Well," Zelda quietly uttered, unsure who Link even thought could be a threat to the Triforce, "It really isn't any trouble. Between all of us, even if there were anybody out to steal it, I think we could handle it."

Link wanted so terribly to scoff, but he kept it locked inside himself. _He_ was the only one meant to handle anything when it came to bloodshed, it seemed. He opted to just shrug instead, not caring to comment.

"Link," Zelda spoke up abruptly, "what's wrong?" Her hands had folded tightly on her lap, and the tone of her voice was concerned and serious, though Link just shook his head, denying the young woman who had been by his side _forever,_ an answer.

"Please," the spirit maiden gently coaxed, leaning her head just a bit lower in an attempt to look her friend in the face, to force eye contact upon him. If she couldn't get an answer, she wanted to at least look Link in the eyes, hoping she would be able to see that the boy she held very near to her heart was _okay_.

And Link found he couldn't ignore the girl's insistence; she had always been so pushy. She'd thrust a mute boy into speaking up, once upon a time, and Link supposed he couldn't fall back into silence now, even if he wished it. His oceanic gazed shifted from the statuette to Zelda's sweet, sincere face, and he did all that was left for him- he relented.

"I ran into a group of Bokoblins and Moblins at Eldin volcano," the teenage Hero recounted in a quiet, tentative voice, as though the walls were listening to him speak. His eyes shone a dull kind of blue, gazing into nothing as the smell of smoke and fire returned to the forefront of his mind. The entire scene felt so much dimmer in his mind's eye; deep reddish brown hues surrounding him, all moving so much more quickly than he thought was possible to perceive. And the worst was that horrid screeching, blood-thirsty and insane, the cries of ravenous beasts echoing all around him in the cavernous prison. "..while I was fighting them, my sword shattered."

"They set upon me..," he uttered, practically feeling his back against the wall and the dusty air in his lungs, "and I was injured pretty heavily.. Fatally, it seemed at the time." Link certainly couldn't forget the badly forged bokoblin blade against his tender flesh as it nicked and tore about as well as it cut. "But then I swore I felt the weight of a sword in my hand again. I looked down, and I had the Master Sword, and it was glowing with this comforting, blueish light. I was desperate, so it wasn't like I was really able to question how the Master Sword could have possibly gotten there. I just used it. I used it just like I had so many other times before, and it cut all those creatures down with such ease, like I was just passing the blade through pillars of water. It was so effortless and the bokoblins were all falling so quickly, all in pieces.. It made me feel for a moment.. Like everything was going to be okay."

Stunned silence enveloped the young woman as she listened. Her breathing was shallow and tremulous as she forced herself to listen, both appalled and ridden with guilt that her friend could speak so openly about slaughter, as though it had become a menial task that required little thought or effort.

"..but-," Link whispered, biting his lip in guilt, looking plainly as though he didn't want to continue, though Zelda said nothing to stop him, "it wasn't the Master Sword.. It was Ghirahim's sword." Shaking his head, Link placed his paintbrush aside, leaning into his emptied palm. "His spirit was revived from the blade. And there I lay before him, injured and dying, and.. you'd think the twisted _bastard_ would be just absolutely giddy over it, but no.. he just looked down at me, like I was the most piteous creature, and.. he showed me _mercy_. He _healed_ me. He _saved_ my life.. If not for him, I-.. I'd be rotting in the dirt right now."

Link took a deep breath, trying to steady himself if he possibly could. Zelda was just as quiet by his side, her hand pressed lightly over her lips as eyes of deep crystal looked upon her broken Hero, hardly believing Link had come so near to never returning, and that his fate had rested in the hands of such a vile, unpredictable creature.. Yet one that had preserved the life of his greatest enemy. Why? And when Ghirahim had refused to even make peace with her, when she'd done nothing to hurt him, in any way...

"I..," the girl muttered, "I don't understand.. When you were gone for so long, I was so worried, but I didn't want to think such things. I didn't want to belittle your amazing strength, knowing everything you went through and how strong you'd become... I just wanted to have faith that such a horrible thing could never be true, but.. Link, I'm so sorry."

The blonde boy just nodded, leaving it to uncertainty if this gesture meant he accepted Zelda's apology, though there was little for her to apologize for. Perhaps it was his own brand of sarcasm, as he was just as baffled as to how his friend could be sincere about worrying over him, when he had returned to find her in joyous preparation for her new life of adventure, hand in hand with Groose.

"I must have passed out from the bloodloss," the young Hero continued, his voice forcibly smoother now than it had been, though the effort he put into maintaining this act was audible and apparent, "when I awakened, I'd been tended to and the sword spirit even spared a potion for me, to help me regain my strength. But even despite his aid, I knew what had to be done still. I still intended to complete my mission, to see him destroyed, even if it meant he'd burn to his last breath-"

"Link, stop," Zelda interrupted, her tone just as weak as her friend's, the meek constitution of her heart too delicate to allow her to hear anything further. Reaching out, she laid her fingers against Link's own, giving the young male's hand a squeeze. "I don't know how you've been able to endure all this violence and bloodshed. You were always so gentle.."

The thought of what it would be like to be the one responsible for the gruesome execution of a creature that had safeguarded one's life; Zelda couldn't prevent the notion of Ghirahim's death being a mistake from whispering its way into her thoughts, a tinge of guilt trickling into her heart.

All she could do to shelter herself from the turbulent emotions that swelled up with her confusion was remind herself of that creature's cold, hateful demeanor, of his dark eyes, their deepest depths like drowning pools of bitter contempt. He could never be saved. More than likely, this all was one final ploy to get under Link's skin, to trick him or otherwise torment him forevermore.

"..but I know you did the right thing." The frail Goddess incarnation attempted to reassure, trying to force herself to believe that her words were those of divine wisdom, even if it was a struggle. Golden lashes lowered against the flawless, rosy skin of the girl's cheeks and she squeezed Link's hand again, hoping her touch could comfort him, though doubting it was so. "..even though having to be the one burdened with ending a life, having such a difficult choice levied upon you, was terrible. I hope your gentle heart will be able to recover from this guilt with time, and in knowing that you made the world a safer place."

As the young woman's voice went quiet, she slowly opened her eyes and turned to Link, looking the poor boy in the face again; his cheeks seemed so pallid and the delicate skin at the corners of his eyes was a tired, grayish hue. The boy looked as though he were becoming ill, but Zelda gingerly reached out to brush her fingers along his forehead, pushing his sandy colored bangs back from his face. "Try to clear your mind, okay? Have something to eat and rest, but don't stay locked up in here, all right? Get some fresh air and maybe just say hello to someone. I know you're in a dark place, but if you can find a way to escape your own thoughts for a while.. You'll be reminded again how beautiful life can be."

Forcing the softest smile, Zelda rested her head against Link's shoulder for just a passing moment, her sweet, perfumed scent seemingly surrounding him with the smallest gesture. Then, just before she drew herself up from the cot, she gently kissed the young Hero's cheek, and left him in peace.

::

Empty sapphire eyes watched carefully as the bedroom door clicked shut and the soft patters of Zelda's footsteps disappeared down the hallway. The young male sighed to himself, as though he'd been holding his breath for a lifetime, and really, perhaps he had been.

Zelda.. She couldn't even bear listening to his words any longer. She couldn't even allow herself to take in the words that merely described the suffering Link had endured. She embodied the very Goddess that placed such awful responsibilities on him, against his will, yet she couldn't even hear him out..

In bitter, wretched resentment, the young Hero's jaw clenched, his fingers tightly clutching the statuette in his grasp and in a fit of emotion, he flung the helpless object against the wall. The wooden birds were the only damn thing in this world more helpless than him.

Leaning into his palms, the boy tried to push the hatred out of his heart. This wasn't Zelda's fault. She never asked for any of this either. She been through just as much as he had. Inwardly, he knew the true reason for his unbridled rage, his disgusting shroud of self-pity.. He knew he wouldn't be capable of telling her the truth. He knew he wouldn't be capable of begging for her aid and her forgiveness.

Link picked himself up, his frame heavy and sluggish and he expected that his health was being effected by the reality of the situation. Nevertheless, he fell upon his knees on the ground and gingerly collected the broken pieces of his ruined sculpture. Apologetic hands cradled the blue Loftwing, which apart from being severed from the crimson bird, was unharmed.

The crimson Loftwing, however, was nowhere in sight. The tormented Hero gathered up its wings, which had broken off upon impact and bounded away in two different directions, the wet, red paint having made a splattered mess on his floor. Only when the blonde male bent himself nearer to the ground did he realized that the body of the bird had rolled underneath his bed, into the darkness beneath. Reaching out, Link collected the broken bird's remnants, finding that when he drew it out, the wet surface had been dirtied with dust that stuck in the coat of paint.

Simply choosing to leave it, Link dropped the ruined pieces back to the ground, though a vivid red stain was left upon his hands.

Link sat helpless on the floor, wondering, had he ever been a Hero? Was he really clear enough of judgement to do what was right? How could he tell himself he'd done the right thing, when he couldn't even confess to his actions, when he couldn't confide in his closest friend, and when she, the holiest being any mortal creature would ever know.. claimed that killing Ghirahim had been what was truly right?

Trembling, tentative fingers dipped down into the leathery confines of the boot Link presently wore, nervous fingertips wishing somehow they could find emptiness there, but instead a dagger was drawn out. The dagger's silvery blade glinted in the light, a stark contrast against the polished, obsidian finish, and in Link's palm, the blade became softly luminous, a fiery aura radiating through the crevices between his fingers, greeting him mockingly, reminding him of how very alive it was.

The young Hero cursed his naivety, his gentleness, his guilt and his utter shame.. He'd been too weak to fully destroy the very creature that had given him back his life. No matter how vile he knew the sword spirit was, Link had seen that Ghirahim suffered for his imperfections and Link was so sure that after having his sword and nearly all of the remnants destroyed, Ghirahim would be too weak to cause any harm. All Link wanted was enough time to recover himself, then he would finally deal with the sword spirit, and perhaps they both could die together in battle and they would be better off.

The world would be better off.

::

..tbc..

::


	11. Chapter 11

_[Warning: This episode is rated F for FUCKED UP. Viewer discretion is strongly advised.]_

:: ::

/..There once was a mogma who was well-known to his tribe as the greatest of all treasure-hunters. He lived for the hunt, he relished in the find, but more than anything else, he found joy in gifting his bounty to his fellows. As this was true, he was beloved by all.

But there was a grim chill in the air the day he found Minkin's village in utter ruin. He had caught the scent of smoke in the air from his home and had burrowed out to see if there were people he might help. However, by the time he found the village, there was nobody left for him to aid.

Houses were strewn apart, piece by piece, or else laid to rest by the flames, nothing remaining but ash. The mogma was certain that this was the work of the monster tribes, and he searched the village high and low for survivors, yet even with his treasure hunting skill, he could not find a single soul still breathing.

All he found that day was a rather impressive sword, which he was sure was not disrespectful for him to take, as it was merely tucked beneath some rubble in the streets, unclaimed by anybody.

For some reason, by the time he returned to his home, the uncanny notion that he should keep the sword, as opposed to giving it away, had worked its way into his mind. He was certain he shouldn't simply give this treasure away, though whatever it was that had made him so certain, he hadn't a clue.

The mogma continued his treasure hunting, as usual. His findings alone had made his tribe quite wealthy, and they were the envy of other mogma tribes. But mogma tribes had peaceful relations and enjoyed bartering, so a wealthy tribe was merely a ripe opportunity for trade.

But, as time passed, the famous mogma's behavior began to change, and unlike his fellows, who enjoyed trading and giving gifts to one another, he had become irritated at the fact that others always expected his kindness, and often asked him for treasures. And so, as his bitterness grew, he began to hoard his findings out of spite.

This issue reached its fever pitch when on one particular hunt, the famous treasure hunter beheld a most beautiful pearl that he simply could not bear to part with. Of course, he showed it to many of his fellows, delighting in their envy, but simply added it to his collection.

As it was, this rare pearl was the heirloom of a family of parella, and once they learned that it had been discovered by a mogma, they requested that it be returned, certain that the peaceful race would heed such a plea.

It was only upon being ordered to return the heirloom to the parella by the tribe leader that any mogma realized the sort of malice that had crept into the mind of their once kind-hearted fellow. The famous treasure hunter vehemently refused, claiming that the parella must have been lying, and all other manner of things to avoid relinquishment of the pearl. It eventually came to relieving him of the pearl when he was not around to guard his treasures, and once he returned to find the item stolen, an unstoppable madness came over him.

The mogma emerged from his den enraged, attacking anyone nearby, as they all were now potential suspects in his ravaged psyche. Before any were even aware enough of what was going on in order to stop him, he had torn apart half of his tribe, and tossed them altogether in his den, a new sort of hoarded treasure.../

::

The air inside the volcano was acid against every vulnerable inch of flesh, and every inch that was vulnerable was every inch the boy possessed. Relief could only come in the form of ceasing to exist, and in some way- perhaps Ghirahim was lucky. At the very least, he could exist just a little _less_.

Not that he could feel the same sickening twist in his gut from having to reassure himself that his skin hadn't finally melted away from his muscles, leaving his muscles to seer until there was nothing but charcoal clinging to brittle bone.

Nevertheless, Link trudged onward- he deserved this. It was only fair. He deserved the sensation of his skin being peeled away, the tears in his eyes unable to quell the burn, his throat comparable to the baked Earth, cracked and dead from years of relentless, unforgiving sun, his lips somewhere between being chewed away and glowing as bright and blistered as the magma that bubbled below. This was his part of the punishment.

"If your sword is destroyed, but part of it remains..," he began, his voice weak and hoarse, "you'll live." This was stated; the young Hero was aware this was fact, and this was his decision, yet he made the sword spirit aware, as though he intended for the vile creature to simply brace himself for what was to come.

The young Skyloftian boy drew out the box where the pieces of Ghirahim's blade, which had been cut down, were stored. He'd long tossed aside the blessed blade where he stood deliberating on what to do, blue eyes not missing the subtle quirk of the sword spirit's pale lips when he finally made his choice. It was a simple enough gesture; it was enough that Ghirahim _knew_ he had _won_, he had _broken_ Link down, he had _bested_ him.

Of course, enduring the liquefying heat consuming the majority of his blade was the price.

The shining obsidian that would survive the fire, ironically, was the dagger that Link withdrew from the box, and shoved down into the sheath in his boot for safe-keeping. Its presence filled the young Hero with dread, because it was the very same dagger that a good man had nearly used to slay his own mother in madness.. And Link was expected to be pure enough to resist that same wretchedly effective whittling of his damaged mind. He wasn't confident.

"Stay hidden inside this dagger," the young boy spoke, his voice seeming to try for a tone that was commanding, though instead it was just tired and afraid.

The spirit, too good to walk, too good to follow like a dog, at last appeared again to the Skyloftian in a flash of fragmented diamonds that twisted together like some grand illusion, going from flickers of light to a three-dimensional figure in a blink of the eye. The being's white hair softly fluttered in the swirl of rising heat and he regarded even his victory with immense bitterness, because control of his fate had been snatched from his own hands. Even when he'd been bound for destruction, it was destruction of his choosing, whereas now he was being shown mercy..

And the mercy of others was so beneath him. That could be seen in the dangerous smolder of his glare and the uncomfortable twitching of his fingers as he crawled in his silvery skin, his pride not simply wounded and aching, but contorted into an uncomfortable position he simply could not tolerate, though he had no other option.

Link found himself thinking- if this creature could be driven any more mad than he already was, he had found the perfect method.

"You realize what you're asking of me, correct? To withstand this is to endure torture a mere degree less horrific than facing my actual destruction. Then to remain caged forever in that pathetic scrap of my full glory?," scoffing, the spirit flicked his hair back in what was likely a gesture of frustration at the young Hero's flawed logic, though he sauntered rather comfortably toward the edge and peered down toward the cleansing, molten Earth, observing it as though it were just an overly hot bath, no fear apparent at all.

"You've been stabbed in the chest numerous times, had your blade battered by the Master Sword, and cut into pieces," Link pronounced, swallowing dryly in an effort to choke down his guilt and not allow it to show. He hadn't a clue why the spirit had decided he now wished to live to fight another day, and he wouldn't allow himself to be coerced into any further mercy. How many times had he reminded himself that this creature was a brutal, merciless, twisted killer? Too many times to count. "..and as long as part of your sword remains out of harms way, I know you can at least somewhat disconnect yourself from the part that is being destroyed."

'Hnnn,' was the noise that came out of the spirit; it was something between a spiteful growl and an affectionate kind of purring, and when he turned to look at the young Skyloftian over his shoulder, the deep inkwells of his eyes gleamed with both loathing and adoration, while the tip of his tongue absently slithered against his subtle smirk of his lips.

'_Clever child..,_' he purred, '_you've figured it out, at last_.' His words- barely audible, yet his voice was quietly impressed, impressed and enraged, enraged and in love. "You're stealing my heart, sky brat," he praised, "tearing it from my chest without an ounce of mercy. Only one other creature in existence could treat such brutality toward me as though it were something I could just.. abide."

The spirit chuckled in a way most snide, turning to fully face his most beloved enemy with a twisted smirk on his pale lips as he asserted, "the Demon King," his words a harsh, sardonic jab.

He left Link alone to digest that declaration, fragmenting and settling himself inside the hidden dagger.

::

It was the all-consuming darkness again, the surroundings blackened in a way that was not at all like night, but more like some hellish force had set fire to the very sky itself. The clouds were a dismal, obscuring smoke, and nowhere in the vast expanse of the endless horizon flew a single Loftwing, not one.

Link could feel himself running, his heart painfully pattering in his chest, fighting the fear that was seizing tightly around it as he searched his floating, island home for a sign that anybody was left here, anybody at all.

Nobody. It was vacated in its entirety. Yet, even as the young Hero opened every door he passed, he found homes that were still quite in order, everything perfectly in place, no sign that his people had gathered up and moved, but rather.. Vanished. All the signs indicated beyond all reason that they were here one moment, but now they were gone, without a single trace. There was nothing but silence and the desolate loneliness left in the absence of everything Link had ever known.

He was alone, and the worst possible kind of alone he could have ever imagined. There was no solace of a protective circle and its guiding light to follow such as in the silent realms, and there was no wise, protective presence settled comfortably and dependably inside a sheath on his back- there was nothing but a tarnished, lost Hero, the darkness of his mind, and the maddening silence so heavy that he could hear his blood crawling through his veins.

...until there was the unmistakably lovely ring of fingers delicately strumming the Goddess Harp. And though it was a song he'd never heard, the sound renewed Link's strength and hope. With the revival of his tenacity, he ran the streets of Skyloft all over again, sometimes sure that he was getting closer to the slow, haunting melody, only for it to begin to dull once more, as if it had moved or simply never been.

Confusion set in paired with exhaustion, leaving the poor boy to cease in his forward movement, instead falling bleakly still as he panted for breath, listening to the solemn melodies that still drifted about as though on the wind, mocking him with their disembodied ring, impossible to find, because Link was sure now, he was absolutely alone.

Yet even so, as the confounded Hero caught his breath, his blue eyes peered round in worry- without any sign of his Loftwing, he was unable to leave in order to search elsewhere. He could do nothing but continue to trudge forward, the soft sound of his slow, unsteady footfalls echoing against every building and ledge in the absence of anything else but the faint, melancholy harp.

Link wandered near the flat, bricked surface of the plaza, toward the edge of Skyloft, though he'd passed through several times already, only now catching sight of a faint, red light glimmering in the shroud of the tower that was there. The glow yanked at any shred of hope left within the boy, though perhaps it was better described as curious desperation, and he bolted nearer, only to stop short once he realized the source of the light.

There, stabbed through the carefully laid brick of the pathway was Ghirahim's blade, its raven surface merged with the shadows that had consumed Skyloft, while its ruby gem softly beckoned Link with its gentle glow. The Skyloftian boy approached, apprehensive and fearing the worst.

"Ghirahim?," the boy spoke, his voice faintly demanding, though he stood momentarily in hesitation. When no response came, he reached out and sharply drew the blade up from the stone, and at that very moment, the sound of the harp abruptly fell into a deadened silence, the silence of complete, abysmal, nothingness.

Link's eyes withdrew from the darkness he'd perceived, the darkness behind his own eyelids, only to squint in the light of morning pouring into his window; he was still in his room in the Knight Academy, though he was seated atop his floor, reclined against the mattress at his back.

He must have fallen asleep as he sat up late into the night, ever mindful, ever watchful, ever since his return. The young male tucked his fingers beneath the leather of his boots, instinctively checking, always needing to be certain of the presence of his prisoner.

Only this morning the Hero found nothing more than unsteadying emptiness occupying the sheath inside his boot, his fingers quickly becoming so desperate that they delved deeper, searching in utter denial that it could possibly be gone.

Panic washed over the boy in one rapid beat of his heart as it went from resting to racing in the slightest fraction of a moment, making the blonde boy light-headed as he lept to his feet, his worried, blue eyes searching more hurriedly than the passage of time, which seemed to slow down like a tightened restraint around the boy.

Link scanned the floor, falling down hard onto his knees to peer under his bed and into any other potential crevice that could hide a dagger. He tore his blankets from his bed and discarded them upon the floor, he yanked open the doors of his wardrobe and ripped everything from within in his search, and he knocked this and that from his desk, yet no matter how feverishly he searched, the dagger was nowhere to be found.

Bursting from the confines of his room, he tore down the vacant hallways, bolting from door to door, peeking into each room in order to inquire about the blade or if anybody had seen it, yet nobody seemed to be about, and the stirring silence shook him from the inside, out. The abandonment of the building burned inside, Link's twisting gut alight with a fear so tremulous and heavy, the mounting sickness inside stole his mobility momentarily.

Blue eyes blurred with stinging tears of pure dread as Link hurried to an exit, breaking through so forcefully, one might assume he'd been trapped for a lifetime. From the elevation of the hilltop academy, Link spied a gathering down at the plaza, where the light tower stood, and a dull roar of voices echoed plainly up from below.

As quickly as his feet could carry him, he rushed down toward where his fellow Skyloftian people had gathered. He'd run these grounds all his life, yet never once had he felt the isle much too expansive from one end to the other until now, the scenery moving past so tortuously slow.

But before the Hero could even approach the back of the crowd, however, he met with a sickening scent that hung heavy in the air, and he knew it all too well; the coppery fragrance of blood and viscera, the stink of rot and death. Paired with the fear of finding to what degree the absolute worst had occurred, it was almost enough to tip him from sick to heaving.

Weaving himself between the gathering of people, Link pushed forward, fear multiplying itself tenfold, a hundredfold, until it wasn't even fear anymore, but a feeling that was indescribable. And that which was indescribable in ignorance violently erupted within the tiny confines of his insides in knowledge, seeing at last how bad the worst really could be.

Every Skyloftian present was breathless and sickened, but a small handful of them were hysterical, and not a single one of them had ever seen death quite like they were seeing it today. Seven bodies (and yes, even despite his horror, Link had counted) lay arranged in circle that was so goddamn perfect, the methodical madness of it would scream that sword spirit's wretched name if not for the painful, bitter honesty he exuded in this moment, his blade forced into the ground, standing victoriously upright in the immediate center of his proud arrangement, sucking up the blood as though he were a beautiful rose blooming in the fresh, damp Earth just after a rain.

Each body was flayed and mutilated almost, almost beyond any recognition. Horwell kneeled near the circle, cradling Owlan's head as his neck bent backwards with more ease than natural, yet the white-haired teacher, even with his long locks matted and stained reddish brown, was the most recognizable. His normally rich, caramel-colored skin had faded to such a pallor, the patches of gray and blue that marred his flesh were easily visible. Wise, gentle, he must have fallen beneath his attacker and taken his last breath without even a minute struggle. Horwell wept now almost as quietly as Owlan likely died.

Old Henya lay among the circle, blood covering her chin and tracing the furrows of her wrinkles. The sockets of her eyes had been hollowed, so much flesh missing that her face would look like nothing but a simple skull, if not for her nose and lips still remaining. The palms of her hands, on the other hand, had been sliced to nothing but visible bone, as surely as she must have tried to grab at the blade digging out her eyes, unsuccessful in this endeavor. Her husband sat nearby, sobbing with his back to her, unable to bear the sight of her gored face.

Her face was more recognizable than the once reserved countenance of Fledge, however, as now the meek boy lay, looking as though his head had been violently smashed against the stone; what was once his skull now resembling shattered, bloodied china and a spill of pulpy mass from within. His clothes alone betrayed his identity.

It was in the way that Pipit's yellow uniform almost seemed as though it had always just been a red color with a mismatched, yellow hat as he hovered protectively between two female bodies that left one to assume those fallen two were probably Mallara, his mother and Karane, his lover. It was he who cried the loudest, leaving one to wonder if in his mind, his thoughts lingered on words he'd said to his mother in the past, or words he'd yet to have the chance to say to Karane at all.

Laying nearest Karane was the body of Cawlin; he lay face-down, but the mess of black hair and his relative shortness made his identity apparent. One arm was frozen in an extended reach toward Karane, his blood-smeared hand laid upon her lifeless form, as though he'd fallen reaching for her, maybe attempting to protect her, and then he'd been impaled and pinned there, then stabbed a multitude of times, so the flesh of his back unfurled, and his spine and ribs peeked up from tattered muscle.

Lastly, the smallest and most destroyed of all the fallen Skyloftian's, a mutilated heap that used to be a living person, surely Kukiel. Not one strand of her hair seemed to remain, her entire scalp somehow peeled away from her skull, and though the flesh of her face remained, it was so battered and torn, one could scarcely even assert it had even been a face. It actually looked like her eyelids were gone, or else her eyes had been frozen in a state of terrified wideness, her mouth open in a scream that was choked with blood. Her tiny body cavity was opened and strewn, her fingertips bloody stubs, as though she'd been dragged here alive and flailing. He must have really _enjoyed_ her.

A few feet away, Gaepora stood solemn, his back to this horror, looking over a message so neatly scripted, it was like a signature on a fucking piece of art; _'The Goddess is Merciful,' _it read in crimson lettering.

Eyes like rain flickered over the horror, so blank, as if they had simply refused to filter these images into the young Hero's breaking psyche, or he stood helplessly waiting to awaken from what was too terrible to be reality. No, no, no, this couldn't happen, _not here_.

The only distraction that could keep Link's chest from seizing so tightly that he stopped drawing breath was the sight of Jakamar's eyes looking straight toward him with a sort of darkness within as he held onto his shaking, sobbing wife. That single look of blame, of pure disgust, like that man's soul had somehow left him, leaving nothing but a shell consumed in bitter fucking hatred- it tore every piece of Link asunder.

Just that single, unrelenting and impenetrable glare had the young Skyloftian foundered in the lightless, breathless depths of all the emotions that had been trickling through the cracked dam in his mind, so that it finally broke and rushed at him from every angle. So in turning to look into every face that surrounded him and finding the same pitiless glare of blame, of loathing... they were the weights dragging him straight under, their eyes the water rushing into his lungs, and his knowledge that they were right and he deserved every bit of their abhorrence, the pressure crushing his pathetic frame so that he may implode.

And here it was.. this was his fault. He caused these deaths. He broke these lives. He brought the darkness back with him and injected it into the souls of every person here. A selfish fucking idiot; he was a soft, stupid child trying to do right and doing so much more wrong instead.

"Link..," one single person found enough fortitude left inside himself to make himself heard. Gaepora's expression was more somber than it had ever been, so bleak and tired, it seemed the face of a man who had never known hope. His every feature was painstakingly crafted, in that moment, to convey such monumental hurt and disappointment. "After the harm this menacing weapon caused the last time you brought it here, you were instructed to never, -ever-, bring it back, under any circumstance.."

As Gaepora spoke, the boy could only sink beneath those heavy words and the weight of everything else he had done as it settled on his back and hung atop his shoulders. He could only glance about and shift in nervousness as whispers from the gathered Skyloftians met his ears, and despite their quietness, he could feel the sharpness of them all, the suffocation of the knowledge that every person present likely desired the fallen Hero's blood as payment for this, the gravest of follies.

"..but-," Gaepora continued, the usual sound of his sternest, lecturing tone wavering and hurt, "..I suppose that because of your recent actions, you've come to believe that you stand above the wisdom and instruction of others. You've allowed the glory to get to you... and though I'm sure we're all grateful to you for everything you've done in making our world a safer one... and I am grateful to you, for having once been the one to save my Zelda,"

The subtle implications of Gaepora's words concerning Zelda gave Link just enough courage to snap his pleading gaze up from the ground beneath his feet, and cast it in desperate questioning in the older man's direction. The boy's pounding heart delved into the deepest pit of his stomach, and suddenly studying the brutal carnage that marred the street didn't seem so bad, as long as he didn't soon discover that, actually, Zelda happened to be one of those disfigured victims.

"..you now stand at fault for the death of seven Skyloftian people," Gaepora's voice softened, weak, "..and the grave injury of one."

Again, Link's pleading gaze fell upon the man who was like a father to him, his head softly shaking, as if to deny that this could be true. The blue of his eyes was deep water and the rain of pure sorrow, shimmering as it traced his cheeks.

A deep sigh heaved like a weight from Gaepora's chest, his words following, "...This crime is utterly unforgivable. Because of this, you, Link.. are hereby banished from Skyloft."

This news could do little to further deepen the devastation Link was feeling. He stood, his hands trembling and sure his knees had begun to bow, so he was postured like some cowering dog, and peering toward Gaepora without the feeblest tatter of hope left to conceal his shame. "Where is she..?," his voice came out, a desperate, pleading whisper. He hadn't enough will in his heart to care what became of himself, but Zelda- harm to her, he could not bear.

The older man just shook his head to the fallen Hero's inquiry. "You needn't worry about that now... We all want you to leave."

The young Skyloftian was quaking where he stood, nervous eyes gazing forward like a stunned animal, unable to comprehend or perceive anything at all. There was nothing he could say to even win himself one last moment before he was cast away from everything he'd ever known, but he simply could not accept such a fate, such an abrupt end, even if it was the same end he'd personally delivered to a handful of his own people.

Blue eyes, so lightless and deep, finally snapped out of their previous fixation, and slowly, Link looked at the faces of every person who stood surrounding him, meeting every other set of eyes, all of which were trained on him in this moment. Taking immediate responsibility for his failure appeared the only option that would be allotted, yet.. the blonde boy was desperate to get to Zelda, and that very desperation began to meld itself into some twisted, reckless form of courage.

The boy's face set itself into an expression that was as determined as it was apologetic, and as the hoard of his own people closed in like a suffocating grip around him, he focused on where the line seemed loose, and bolted.

He had to try.

And in this endeavor, he found success, breaking past the grasping hands of all the other Skyloftians. He was met with difficulty, fingers tangling in his clothes, arms extending before him as though they could wall him in, but honestly- the people of Skyloft were too gentle, even now. These arms were not strong, these fingers, not harsh. The boy was not struck, nor shoved, nor grappled at. He'd faced more ferocious hoards than this. He'd met creatures barbaric enough to attempt to cease his forward movement with much bloodier intent.

His own people, however- violence was not something they had ever really known. They couldn't stop him, not yet.

But as Link made his escape, the Knights took to the sky in pursuit. Like their failed Hero before them, it was surely only a matter of time before they steeled their own wills in order to protect what they held dear.

And perhaps, in the end, they would do a much better job.

:: ::

The darkness offered but the tiniest repose from the noise outside; it was madness such as Zelda had never known, even after everything she'd seen. Impa had sheltered her quite well during those troubled times, but now there was nobody, and the young goddess incarnate was all alone.

She had been hidden away in a house that was not her own, in the hopes that she would not easily be found. She sat upright upon an unfamiliar bed, blankets pulled tightly around her frail frame, her fingers clutching at the fabric as though it was the only thing preventing the chaos outside from reaching her.

Crystal clear eyes peered sightlessly into the shadows, wide and terrified as she nervously cowered, trembling like some battered Remlit.

As the noise of screaming and wing beats outside grew to a climactic precipice, she fought against her own tattered psyche to keep herself from delving into any recall of the night previous to this horrible day. It was to no avail, of course.

She had been slumbering soundly upon her old cot at the academy. It wasn't as if there were any rush for her to clean out her old dorm, because there weren't yet many new academy applicants of the proper age. She felt uncertain whether it was late into the night or early in the morning, but she knew that it was still black as pitch outdoors, and the darkness within her own room was indicative of such. The softest sound of a door clicking made its way into her unconscious mind, but did not cause her to stir, as it was so perfectly quiet, it was more likely somebody else's door. (After all, noise transference in those dorms was incredibly bad.)

However, the subtle shifting of her mattress, as though beneath the weight of somebody else, managed to register and disrupt her slumber. Slowly, she opened her eyes, taking in the familiar silhouettes of her room, everything seeming in its proper place. She could see easily enough in the darkness, as her eyes had long adjusted, and as she shifted beneath her blankets in order to move and raise herself from her prone position, her ankle bumped into something solid, which caused her to sit upright with renewed haste.

She immediately froze as her eyes were laid upon a familiar figure just beyond arm's reach, her mind refusing to believe that what she was seeing could possibly be true.

The menacing stranger spoke only three words, before he set upon the young girl, his size and weight much more than the sheltered child could hope to struggle free from. Actually, he surely said more than those initial words, but all else was soon lost in Zelda's attempts to escape what he was doing to her.

Soon enough it was not only words that were lost, but actions as well, her mind falling into a certain state of unconsciousness, trying with all its might to protect itself from the worst of the trauma that would be permanently writing itself on her, forever, otherwise.

Still, his voice echoed in her head at that one moment of terror and realization. His words resounding in her mind, even now, as she sat safely elsewhere, dealing quietly with the physical pain that was leftover from the attack, and the emotional pain that came with knowing that of all the people attacked last night... She was the lucky one.

She shook her head, trying to escape those whispered words, that malicious voice, but it played over and over, as if he were right beside her, still speaking into her ear, greeting her ever so familiarly, with a most simple, "Hello again, Hylia.."

And then it suddenly disappeared as another sound shattered the otherwise silent space of Pipit's now vacant home. The front door was flung open, and Zelda's eyes shot up to see a blurred figure standing on the threshold. His image was, at first, distorted by the powerful rays of sunshine coming in from outside, but as if in a desperate rush, he did not linger in the doorway.

The one who had barged inside rushed into the house, not even shutting the door behind himself- It was Link, and Zelda knew very well he would come. She wondered if this felt reminiscent to him at all, like that day so many years ago when Zelda had come to find that mute orphan cowering alone, and in pain.

The young Goddess stared upon him in silence, her heart full of turmoil, her body aching all over, her eyes shining with unshed tears, as well as something else that she couldn't hold back- Blame. It consumed her, destroyed her, shattering her from the inside out, but she couldn't keep herself from it.

Her friend, the one who was meant to be a Hero, had weakened, and he had spared that evil creature that dwelled within the demon king's sword. In doing that, he betrayed his own duty, and the trust of every person in Skyloft. He had allowed for innocents to be murdered, as if without any thought of the consequences.. And though he had once been the one to save her life.. now, it was as if he had condemned her to a fate far worse; A pain that she now had to live with, knowing that it could never be washed away or forgotten.

Link fell to his knees at the bedside. As he spoke, his face wrinkled with grief and he gazed up at Zelda, the look in his own shimmering, tear-glassed eyes begging her to tell him that she was... 'Okay'. He was still so foolish... So naive.

"What did he do to you..?," Link asked in a tremulous tone, seeming more fragile than he ever had, as if he would shatter at the answer, and he knew as much. "Zelda," he uttered, his voice heavy with sorrow, as though he were just barely above breaking out into a sob. A careful hand reached, to touch his friend, to reassure her, but.. he knew there was nothing he could do... Not this time.

In a few short moments, the knights had honed in, and were rushing through the door.

Zelda flinched away from her friend's touch, and he pulled his hand away. Instead, he said only one thing, though he was all too aware that it made no difference.

"I'm sorry," he breathed.

Zelda mustered just enough strength to shake her head softly in reply. This one gesture was enough to deny her friend's apology, and truly, it was all that was needed for Link to get the picture, to understand where he stood with her. However, despite the sorrow in the young girl's eyes, she found some steely, tempered force to harden herself as Link was grabbed up with ease, and dragged away without a struggle, away from Zelda and everything he'd ever known.. Forever.

::

The lone boy was poised at the edge of a dock. His knight clothes were not to be returned to him, though he was lucky to have been granted possession of his chainmaile and his shield. At his hip, another practice blade that he had been given, the people of Skyloft not cruel enough to send him away without some means to defend himself. His empty bottles had been replenished with potions for the very last time, and he was granted bombs and arrows, and enough food to get him through a few days. His wallet felt much lighter, however, so it seemed that everything that had been given to him was paid for.

Link listlessly peered back just enough to see his crimson Loftwing being restrained, off to the side. The bird was tied by its head and legs, and a handful of Knights were struggling to hold onto the flailing creature. It had already had its wings clipped to make certain that it couldn't loyally fly to its master's aide. It was being restricted now for its own safety, as surely it would spread its wings and flap over the edge of Skyloft to catch Link, then merely to plummet to the surface, itself.

An immense weight came to be forcibly placed onto Link's back, and he restrained a groan at it, hunching himself forward in order to stay upright. The damned sword that had caused all the trouble had been wrapped in heavy cloth, and tied up, and now it was being tied to Link's back. All of Skyloft wanted to make sure the cursed blade was banished alongside the foolish boy who had brought the horror here so thoughtlessly.

Once the blade was secure, nobody spared a single word to Link. He was urged forward, along one of the docks at the edge of the floating isle, so that he could see nothing but endless sky stretched out before him.

"Wait," came a voice that was easily heard over the silence of the crowd, speaking up at the last possible second. The two Knights that stood at Link's back, ushering him, suddenly stopped. Their hold on Link lessened as they looked back, and Link, too, looked over his shoulder absently, the life drained from his eyes as his gaze beheld Zelda's image, and he turned to face her.

The young Goddess stood a few paces away from the dock, the crowd having parted to allow her access. Link met her gaze, distinctly sure he could see the fight inside her. The shattered pieces of 'Zelda' had crumpled to the very lowest point of her being, and the person who now looked upon Link was strong and reserved, though filled with shame and regret. It was still Zelda, but.. she had turned to Hylia for strength and guidance in this moment, and though she observed Link with pity, there was no hope for pardon.

"Relinquish it," spoke the Goddess simply, her tone firm. Nobody in the entire crowd knew of what she spoke, only that she was regarding Link, and they watched the exchange with solemn interest.

Link was plainly aware of what was being asked of him. His heart further tore apart in his chest as he was stripped of the last thing that made him the Hero chosen by the goddess, by the woman who had come to forsake him. He lowered his head for a moment, the tears in his eyes finally spilling over, though he did not raise his head to let anybody see. He gave in to the demands of his friend, no, the creature of divinity before him, unable to refuse.

Slowly, Link's hand raised to shoulder-level, his fingers trembling, the back of his hand turning in Zelda's direction. He spoke quietly, but loudly enough for Zelda to hear, though his words hadn't been meant for her, necessarily. "I relinquish you."

Once Link's words were finished, and he fell silent, a faint glow could be seen from the back of his hand. The glow quickly became vividly luminous and golden, like the sun, before finally something tore itself from his appendage, and hovered into the air between Link and Zelda. Three golden triangles, all attached together to form the holy relic, the Triforce. Zelda lifted her hands to receive it, accepting the duty of watching after it, her duty as the very first of the goddess's new race. The very first Hylian.

However, instead of going to the one whom had beckoned it, the one meant to guard it, the hovering relic began to flicker, and tremble in air. A conjoined gasp and murmur from the crowd caused Link to look up just enough to watch what was happening, and to see the confused expression on Zelda's face.

With a resounding crack that everyone present could hear, the relic snapped apart into three peices. One shot over to Zelda, and in a flash of golden light, it etched itself into the back of her hand. Another did the same, however, choosing to return to Link instead. Finally, the last of the relics flashed across the sky like a falling star, and off into the distance before shooting itself down beneath the clouds, vanishing to someplace unknown.

The look of confusion never left Zelda's face as she looked off into the distance with concern upon her delicate features. However, she finally retreated, disappearing into the crowd, and with the exchange as complete as it could be, nobody spoke a single word further.

Link was then spun round and pushed to the edge of the dock. He took a deep breath, swallowing, and he tightly shut his eyes, pushing out a fresh wave of hot tears, though he tried to restrain them as he hid himself in the blackness, not ever wanting to crawl out.

Then at last he felt the final nudge that sent him over the edge, and plummeting down, helplessly, toward the surface, without any idea as to where he would land or what would happen to him.

And yet.. somehow.. he just couldn't even will himself to care what became of his life.

::

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

::

:: ::

The wind seemed much more volatile than usual; it whipped and whistled violently around the young girl, reminding her of the storm _that day_, the day she was torn from her home above the clouds and sucked down into the Hell that waited below.

She could recall, with ease, the desperate but somehow courageous look of her dear friend, resolute through his panic, as he dove after her, reaching for her as she fell. But he was helpless to break her fall that day and he'd been just as helpless to break his own.

Worst of all, she had been too blind to see his fall coming. She was as blind now as she had been then. Perhaps, despite everything, neither of them had learned a thing. Instead, they had merely both been broken somewhere along the way.

Zelda inched herself ever nearer to the edge of the dock, the dock her fallen Hero had been pushed over when he was cast out for his crime. The toes of her boots were over the edge, her weight rested on her heels, and her eyes stared out, as though to absorb their color from the sky that stretched out endlessly before her.

"I'm sorry," she spoke, her voice a secretive and somber whisper, "but you broke your promise to me."

A sigh of regret was exhaled from her, her eyes shifting to look downward, toward the blanket of clouds that protected Skyloft from the world below, the world she would be facing now, without her knight, her hero.. her friend.

"Goodbye, Link," she breathed aloud, though she remained poised at the edge of the dock, not truly ready to turn her back forever.

"Zelda?" came a gentle, questioning voice. Her frame unmoving, she slowly turned her head and looked over her shoulder to see Groose a few paces away. He warily approached, cautious, as though Zelda were some wounded creature, bound to flee at any moment.

A silence hung between the two, one that was both careful and uncertain, the red-haired young man not wanting to cause his friend distress, yet he was unsure he had such a capability. It was a long while before he decided to speak up, and when he did, his words were delicate ones. "Do you regret letting it happen? Letting him be banished?"

"..no," Zelda stated, her voice plain and distant, her tattered emotions buried somewhere beyond her reach.

Groose had only returned from the surface the day before, having not been present when horror struck the floating isle that was his home. To him this news was.. like some horrible lie, refusing to properly sink in. His friends, and fellow people of Skyloft- many of them had died. And Link, their Hero, his friend, had been cast beneath the clouds, never to return. Perhaps Groose was lucky to have been absent; certainly, he could have been among the fallen, were he present.

Worse yet, he could be among the survivors who actually witnessed the brutal slaughter of their friends, family, and neighbors. If Groose had an opinion, the dead were better off; the rest had to live with that horrid sight, the deep, vast emptiness of so many lost, and the fear, always haunting their mind- what if that thing ever came back, what if it ever found them again?

Most residents seemed to be teetering between various states of distress, each trying to cope and failing to cope in their own respect. Some residents were filled with rage that nothing could quell, and maybe Gaepora had made the quick decision to banish Link for his own protection. Others seemed unable to stop weeping and nothing could drag them from their homes; it was as though their own lives were the ones that had come to a halt. Some were sickeningly chipper- the ones who could do nothing but simply pretend nothing had happened at all, if only because reality had become too difficult to handle.

Then there were those who had lost all ability to allow themselves to feel, the pain so immense, it was better to be numb to everything- Zelda was one of those. The only thing that Groose had seen break through her wall was fear and it was not fear that was normal or rational. It was fear that sprung up for no reason at all. It was fear that had her looking over her shoulder randomly, or staring into people's faces, as though she had mistaken them for somebody else, or else had forgotten them altogether. It was fear that stole the young woman's rest; Groose had witnessed the first night after what happened to her- she did not sleep. She had sat upright atop her bed, her doors locked, and a weapon just within her reach. The darkness suffocated her and violated her attempts to stay strong, not allowing her a moment of rest, though Groose had been right there the entire time.

Lastly, there was Groose, who'd likely been swinging his hammer by the lantern light as the hands of others were thrown up in attempts at defense that was hopeless. To him, people had simply disappeared, and those who were left.. They weren't the same.

"It doesn't..," he began, unsure if he should finish his words, shaking his head, "..well, what happened is sickening, I understand... but we both know _he_ didn't mean for it to happen." And Groose had felt the effects of that wicked blade as it invaded his mind and soul. It wasn't something somebody could will themselves to resist. This was too complicated a matter for placement of blame on anybody.. Save for the sword, itself.

"That doesn't matter," Zelda replied, her voice quiet but even, "he allowed it to happen. He, alone, was responsible... I just can't grasp why he would allow it. How could he be so foolish?"

Groose quietly debated the words of his reply, not because he did not know what he was bound to say in response, but because he did not know if he wished to say it aloud. He couldn't even look in his friend's direction, when at last he did speak up. "_We_ allowed him, alone, to take responsibility for that sword, knowing what it was capable of. Perhaps.. We placed too heavy a burden on him? Perhaps we, also, are to blame, and deserve the same fate?"

Zelda was silent- Groose had expected that much, but was uncertain whether she was contemplating this suggestion, or simply ignoring it. The latter seemed more likely when at last she spoke again.

"The triforce has broken. One piece remains with him, but another piece fell to the surface..somewhere."

Groose could sense the worry growing inside his friend, though at last he closed the gap between them, reaching out to grasp Zelda's hand, despite how she stiffened at the sudden contact. "I'm sure it means that the Goddess has plans even you don't know about yet. For now, try not to worry."

"The service will be starting soon..," he quietly reminded, "we should head over to the cemetery.. Unless you had rather not go."

Zelda silently turned away from the dock, nodding her head softly to Groose, and she began in the direction of the cemetery, holding tightly to Groose's hand for strength.

:: ::

This feeling of falling had become so familiar, yet today it was ever more so; it was the very feeling Link had experienced upon awakening this fateful morning, it was the truth of his very being, fallen from grace. It defined him, he did not fight that.

His eyes were shut tightly, unable to keep his tears from being set free against the wind ripping at him as he toppled from above. He did not wish to see the ground approaching, hoping it was to be his death, no matter where he landed. He just didn't care. It surely could not hurt the same as his battered heart and soul, it could not hurt like all the pain and loss back home. It would be quick and it would free him, not that he deserved such a thing.

But the thought of death only served to remind Link of the servitude that would follow him into his next life, and it was at the last moment that he opened his eyes to see the surface just one final heartbeat away and he tore out the sailcloth as rapidly as his fighter's instincts could manage.

The sailcloth captured the air, yanking Link's arms violently upward, though it did not slow his pace near quickly enough, and the boy still struck the ground with force, the earth colliding with him as sharply as stone, though it had been grass.

Coughing, Link's body fought to regain his breath, and he lay aching all over, wondering if he was even in one piece, not that it even mattered. There was the bitter tang of blood on his lip, at the tip of his tongue, but he didn't even bother to wipe it away, his eyes focused instead on the sailcloth as it rested innocently in his palms.

The boy lay, staring at the precious cloth, at the mark that was emblazoned upon it in blue. His mind ventured back to the day he'd received it, to Zelda's carefree smile, to everything that was long gone and lost to him now and he grasped the object and clung to it as his sorrow overtook him. His gasping for breath subsided as his chest tightly clutched in a sob, and while his fingers bundled the sailcloth in one hand, they viciously tore at the grass with the other.

There was nothing left for him to lose now, but his life. And should he lose that, he would be bound to the same torment in his next, bound to fight and suffer, bound to fail everyone he'd ever loved, and cause them unrivaled sorrow, eternally. He could not escape it. His punishment now was to be his last reprieve, and even that had come at a cost, a cost he was not willing to pay, yet it had been torn from him, nonetheless.

The fallen Hero could not see it, but a soft light slowly awakened from within the blade at his back, and from inside the obsidian steel, its malevolent spirit materialized. His feet delicately tapped the ground as he appeared, but he paid no immediate heed to the broken bundle that was Link. Instead, his dark eyes flickered over his surroundings in observation.

It was obviously some clearing beyond Faron woods, though there was still forest in the distance that did not feel the same as the forest protected by Faron. It was something a little wilder, that much was certain. There was a silence that hung in the air so heavily, it was suffocating, haunting. As he peered this way and that, the sword spirit muttered something about being lost in the middle of nowhere in a tone most grave.

Raising his head, his burning eyes setting upon Ghirahim in bitter hatred, Link managed to quietly utter words in confusion, in question. "...why?," he whispered, almost as though he expected a logical, realistic answer, as though he did not know the damnable spirit acted for the sheer purpose of evil. "..why would you do this?" Perhaps the boy meant to pose these questions more so to himself, than the spirit.

Softly, Ghirahim chuckled as he turned on heel to eye the broken child, giving the boy a look of equal disdain. "I was far too tickled by the idea to resist, when it came to me," he confessed, "mostly because you simply didn't seem to expect it, even from me." Here, he outright laughed, though his laughter belied the annoyance growing inside, the insult that Link couldn't grasp or understand the _utter perfection_ of this moment.

"I spared your life," Link hissed, still on his belly like some venomous serpent, "how did Zelda and all those people you _butchered_ deserve what you've done?" His voice had dropped to a level of anger and hatred he had never known before, and all his previous pity melted away, lining the bottom of his mind like some kind of toxic sludge he couldn't clear away.

The spirit's silence, the way any form of expression vanished from his features, foretold the rage burning, burning, coming to a boil inside, building, building, with pressure ready to explode- Link welcomed it, challenged it with the blue fire burning in his own eyes.

Little did Link know, the sword spirit was putting quite an immense effort into restraining himself. He wanted to revel in this, his greatest victory, no, this was artistry on his part, and he'd melded this world with his hands so perfectly, he might as well have been a God in his own right. What right did this foolish Sky brat have to steal this?

But honestly, this boy was Hylia's chosen one, the Hero, THE Hero- yet here he laid on the ground like a sniveling baby! Ghirahim's fingers slowly curled against his palms, tightly bundling until his fists shook, and he tried to restrict the rage as it threatened to spill over, but he just couldn't let those sorts of feelings fester inside him. No, this would not be the day he restrained himself. It was not to be.

He marched over to the fallen hero, his speed and stride foretelling his violent intent, and he yanked the rope that had bound his heavy sword to the boy's back. Ghirahim heedlessly knocked over his own blade to get at the boy, then sharply kicked Link in the side so the boy sputtered and rolled onto his back. The spirit's foot next came down upon Link's chest and he looked down at the broken Hero with a hardened glare.

"Somebody is a bit forgetful, I see- If you'll think back properly, you'll recall that you did not actually spare my life. You merely promised me enough time to regain my strength, after which you mentioned that we would fight again. And we both know, in control as you were, you would never allow me any fair chance to best you, because if I lived and you died, I could have done so much worse to your pretty little island in the sky. Nevermind that I wasn't even able to properly regain strength in that stifling little thing you reduced me to! No, you intended to win, as you always do, and kill me anyway. That is -not- sparing my life, you misguided human, -that- is simply placing me as your prisoner on death row, and promising me perhaps a few more miserable days before my end. Surely you understand where I'm coming from, yes? I was threatened. My own life was at stake. It was me or whoever could spare enough blood to restore my strength, and if I wanted to promise my own escape, I had to beat you down in a way I knew would succeed."

Here, Ghirahim broke out into maniacal laughter, his emotions snapping to and fro uncontrollably, his head falling back in amusement. "I'm fairly certain, at this point," he muttered between his giggles, "..that you're pretty well beaten!"

Cold, dark eyes like the void of space came to peer down at the fallen Hero as the spirit stilled his own laughter; the light of Ghirahim's twisted delight still twinkled like distant stars. "You look utterly defeated laying there, beneath my foot," he purred. "To think...for all those times you bested me in battle, I finally found a strategy to completely destroy you! Ah, what sweet, sweet vengeance!"

The young Hero squirmed in the hopes that some minor resistance could shove the spirit away, or at least dissuade him from staring as he was. Those black eyes infected the boy, invaded him, absorbed him, erupting inside him like a tear in the fabric of his universe, like all of his nightmares, but worse, because instead of waking up, Link only slipped deeper and deeper into the abyss.

This was some sort of lethal sickness that Link was sure couldn't be cured- he felt too many things, too few things. The rage within him was more than he felt his sanity could contain, yet his sorrows were so equally vast, he couldn't will himself to fight back yet, and so the anger turned inward. He force-fed himself the poison and felt it slowly move through him, liquefying his insides as he waited in agony to drown in his own putrid filth.

"Get away from me..," the boy growled through his teeth like a rabid animal. He wished he were, at least then he could lose his mind and suddenly.. Nothing would matter anymore. It could take the weight of the world off of his shoulders, the weight of his failure off his chest.

"No," Ghirahim hissed with insistence, "You asked the question, and you'll hear the real answer!" The spirit stooped down, hovering near the boy and Link fell deathly still at the hardened seriousness in Ghirahim's face.

"Vengence against you wasn't my intention," he breathed, his pale lips faintly curled, his smoldering eyes still boring into the fallen Hero with such fondness, it mocked him, "..but now you understand how it really feels to be thrown away. What a beautiful depiction you are, as you are right now, of myself, when I was created. Now you know, truly, how it feels to be cast from above, to be fallen, to lay there with the realization that you're worthless, unneeded, unwanted, unnecessary."

A gloved hand moved from its resting position on the spirit's knee, to the Skyloftian boy's chest, where the fabric of his shirt was tightly bundled between the spirit's fingers. In a fluid, graceful movement, Ghirahim came back to a stand, dragging the fallen Hero's boneless frame with him, and he held Link above the ground so the two were face to face. The spirit continued to smile almost warmly despite his viciousness, his voice a dangerous purr as he spoke, though he moved his other hand to caress Link's face with false tenderness.

"At last, my artful sculpting of your pitiful fate reaches meaningful completion. You, like myself, can feel what it is like to be discarded from the place of your birth, like trash. Now, I can ask of you what you've so ignorantly been asking of me. Though your present situation is a result of my actions, no fault of your own, they placed the blame on you anyway, and they threw you out. The Goddess created me and wove this cruelly into your fate, and her incarnation certainly spared no sympathy for you. But, despite all that, dearest Link, forgive them for placing the blame on you, forgive them for turning their backs on you, and forgive me for causing all of this, why don't you? Can -you- do that? Is there room in -your- broken heart for forgiveness?"

Ghirahim's tirade seemed to come to a close as he fell silent, awaiting any response that may come from his adored enemy, his broken toy, and he tried to be patient with the boy, knowing this moment of significance would be one that both shattered the child and defined him henceforth. He wanted to watch the Goddess's little Hero as he tried and failed to piece himself back together mentally- all the beautiful futility of it all. He wanted to be the first to run his fingers along the cracks and furrows of the mortal boy's psyche as it set into something disfigured, but so much better than the righteous, naive nonsense it once was.

Then, without any further warning, Ghirahim's hold on the boy's shirt was released and Link toppled to the ground, barely even making any attempt to stop his descent and he let out a grunt as he was plopped down, landing on his knees. This time, though Ghirahim began to speak again, the boy did not raise his eyes to meet the spirit's, instead staring down at his own fingers as they splayed in the grass before him.

The malevolent being spun on heel, pacing a few steps away from the little Hero, then back, as though he were impatiently trying to gather himself, and likely not succeeding. "I hope this simulates even a fraction of my own pain for you," he hissed as he paced about and flicked his white hair away from his face in frustration, his fingers holding it back so he could stare upon Link with both of his cold, dark eyes, as though this heightened his intensity somehow, "..I hope you can understand, now, how I've felt for such a very, very, intolerably long amount of time."

A soft hiss of noise slowly came from the young Hero, the sound of him taking a deep breath into himself and letting it go, before he finally raised his eyes to glare at Ghirahim, the life drained fully from the cold, blue depths, the fire of hatred consuming the boy and feeding on whatever was left of his will as it slipped through the cracks of his mind, and spirit.

"I..," the Hero began, pausing as though the sound of rage in his voice had momentarily shaken him, "I hate you," he growled in such a way, it was the absolute, unquestionable truth.

A smile that was warm with pride spread across the spirit's pale lips, and his beckoning gaze twinkled as he watched the Hero slowly drag himself from his knees, up to his feet. He knew now, he had done it- he had unlocked the secret of destroying the Goddess's Hero...and dragging him into the darkness.

"That's too bad," he cooed sweetly to the fallen Hero, confidently stalking toward the boy and reaching a cautious hand out to stroke Link's dirty-blonde bangs, savoring that look of venom in his icy gaze, "..because now I'm all you have left.. _Master._"

With a giggle of giddy delight, Ghirahim placed delicate fingertips over his own grinning lips, his frame fragmenting into diamond-shaped flickers of light that burned out in seconds before he reappeared a few paces away, still cooly watching the enraged Hero. Now, however, a familiar, obsidian sabre had appeared in his hand, his fingers loose as he casually flicked the weapon before himself then twirled it at his side.

"Shall we, then?," he beckoned the boy, his feet sliding apart and easily into a comfortable fighting stance; it really had been much too long since he and his favorite enemy had engaged, and he was hungry for it. After so much provocation, surely the Sky Child could benefit from a little combat, as well.

Link didn't even think; the only sword available to him was a practice blade but he drew it forth and charged the sword spirit with all of his fury, all of his woe, all of his hatred.

And perhaps the two weren't as intimately connected as they could be with Link's hand on Ghirahim's blade, but the spirit could still vaguely feel the surge of emotion in his new master, the lovely, chaotic arrangement of it, like stained glass vibrantly illuminated, the color of light ever-changing. So much darkness bubbled up from the depths of the boy, and yet the dull pulse of the holy Triforce of Courage remained, golden and glorious, but thrumming even more violently, even more aggressively through Link in the absence of the other pieces, unstable, unflinching.. It was a truly rich concoction, and Ghirahim was awash with tremors of pleasure at such a torturous overstimulation.

The banished Hero's blade flashed in the light with the rapid pace of his strikes, as though the light was the only thing there was and the steel itself had never been. His movements were so quick and aggressive, so passionate yet so concentrated, and Ghirahim glided smoothly back with cat-like steps, matching Link's blows with fluid ease, as if the speed had soothed him, relaxed him.

For such a small boy, Link had so much power behind him, but the sword spirit melded to it as Link came in close to fight, unhinged and yet so capable, as though he were grateful for his pathetic practice blade's short reach, because he wanted to be close enough to see even the slightest details of Ghirahim's face, when he finally plunged the sword into his chest and gave it a sharp twist.

That moment came so close, again and again, as though Ghirahim were allowing himself to be enticed and excited by the danger of it, but every time he narrowly avoided Link's strikes, moving with such grace, it truly was like they were bound as one, mentally, physically, spiritually, and he simply knew, felt, what the boy was about to do, choosing but to move in rhythm with Link.

However, though steel clanked and tinged together in a rapid, musical heartbeat that sang off the trees that surrounded the combative partners, the rage burning inside the Skyloftian boy hastily burned away his energy and left him in fighting desperation, in doubt.

Why couldn't he hit the vile spirit? Hadn't he bested him time and time again? Had his strength come solely from the Master Sword? Had it guided him with the Goddess's light, but now he was but a tarnished, hollow tool whose usefulness had expired?

Or was it because he wasn't fighting to save the ones he loved anymore... but rather for a justice he knew still wouldn't bring them back and wouldn't change anything?

Link's attention was caught when Ghirahim parried, giving the smaller male a hard backward shove, before sidestepping and teleporting out of his reach. Link's eyes no longer searched for the spirit as they once did, his gaze instead pointing right to where he felt Ghirahim would solidify. The spirit's face was snide and he gave a quick gesture to indicate something behind the boy. Link could hear it- the sharp whistle of a sharpened blade as it sliced the empty air. Ghirahim's own blade had sprung to life from where it lay seemingly forgotten, and now it drew back to strike the fallen Hero, swinging toward the banished boy.

Link didn't even have time to catch a glance at the monstrous demon blade as it flew toward him with a sharp hiss, but.. he thought momentarily, he could feel it? He could see it coming, as though the blade itself had eyes and they processed sights into Link's own mind, and he caught a minute flash of it. He bent his knees to jump and avoid the strike, his back arching in the air, his feet flying over his head as he flipped backward and landed to perch atop the demon blade itself where it hovered.

"Oh..," Ghirahim made a sound of surprise and amusement, the ridge of his brow raising in intrigue, his dark eyes flashing with stoked interest. "So you feel it, too? It didn't take you long to adjust to our partnership at all.."

The spirit's voice was likened to that of a teacher, guiding a gifted pupil. Link narrowed his own eyes, catching his breath as he crouched upon the floating sword, his fingers finding a hold upon the handle and the blade held still beneath him. "What are you talking about?"

"We're connected," the spirit spoke simply, giving a shrug, "we have been since you drew my sword in the volcanic region- you know that. As such, I've been intimately aware of your thoughts and feelings since then, as it is my duty as a servant to understand the desires of my Master. That's also why I can feel and predict your movements in battle, why I can move with you perfectly- because I am yours, a part of you. But, it takes a rather talented and deeply perceptive person to feel me in the same way, to use my own senses, thoughts and feelings to their own advantage."

"That isn't what I've done. I know what you're trying to do and I'm nothing like you!" Link leapt from the demonic blade, lunging toward the sword spirit where he stood, though the demon used his magic to teleport away before Link could strike him. There was not even a spare moment after Link struck, before the hovering blade continued to attack him, swinging toward his back again, which Link jumped to avoid again.

But wait, no.. something was going to happen.. Ghirahim was going to...

The foul spirit reappeared as Link spun in the air; the young Hero's blue eyes caught sight of the arrogant creature as he appeared directly in his path, his sabre raised to deliver a blow that would finish the boy while he was defenseless in the air.

Link moved his sword to block the strike, pushing back against Ghirahim as their swords met, and though Link remained unharmed, his trajectory was skewed and he rolled to the ground, only to clamber hurriedly to his feet. He had no other option, because Ghirahim had shifted to the offensive, teleporting to stand before the boy and he thrust his obsidian weapon toward Link where he had landed, so the young Skyloftian could only dodge back to avoid the strike.

Again, the Demonic Blade continued to attack of its own accord, flying down suddenly from above, and burying partially into the ground when Link jumped back again. Once more Ghirahim solidified near the fallen Hero, but he..

He felt Ghirahim's presence before the malevolent entity even appeared there, and so he drew back to strike, his small practice blade slicing through the air a minor fraction of a second prior to Ghirahim's appearance, so when the dark being did materialize, Link landed a clear slash across his chest, though it was not enough to damage the spirit's vital area.

Nevertheless, Ghirahim teleported himself away by a few paces, his eyes seeming to flash with indignance for a few fleeting seconds before the tip of his tongue slithered over his pale lips in hunger, enticed by the skill and raw talent of his new master.

The sword spirit felt he finally understood, fully, why Hylia chose this delightful boy. Ghirahim had assumed, upon his first meeting with the Sky brat, that Link was much too soft to pose a real threat. And even though the boy developed and hardened over time, never letting his determination slip away, he was still so naive, so innocent, so willing to blindly serve, blindly chase.

The Skyloftian was a weapon in his own right, too ignorant to question the meaning behind his own situation. The spirit assumed..that's what made the boy so perfect for the Goddess's ends, at first.

But no... _Hylia, you wonderfully brilliant devil_... This boy's flexibility was what really made him such a lush little vessel. He couldn't break, could he? No, he merely bent and adapted to everything presented to him. He absorbed everything around him, and was he ever perceptive..

Ghirahim didn't know if he dared admit it.. The boy was a much better match for him than Demise could have ever hoped to be. The boy had the ability to make use of Ghirahim's individual talents, as a sword, as a partner.. All Demise ever did was harden himself to opposition more and more, until he shattered like glass. He never melded himself with the sword, too proud to let himself feel or even acknowledge that he needed Ghirahim to be anything but a sharp edge.

He understood now... why he'd wanted this boy so badly.. Why he'd always been so apprehensive when the reality that he'd have to dispose of the Hero eventually came to mind..

He had to have this, he had to. There was no other way. In that boy's hands is where he belonged, it was where he had to be.

"You can't hope to deny it, Sky child," Ghirahim chuckled, a little flustered at his own thought process, "it doesn't matter whether or not you're 'like me', don't you see? I was _meant_ for you. Perhaps.. Even Hylia herself intended for it to be so. My counterpart became her enemy's prison, and now you lack a sword to match your skill, while I am without hands to wield my blade. You need me, too."

Link watched the spirit as he spoke, his calm, somber expression a subtle indication of realization and he lowered his practice blade, then finally moved to sheath it. "No," he said plainly, no hesitation within him, and he shook his head. He did not dare look away from Ghirahim, observing the slightest wrinkle of confused annoyance furrowing the spirit's silvery complexion as he tried to bridle his insult at that one simple, heedless denial.

Perhaps the fallen Hero could not deny what Ghirahim had explained about their connection, even less as he thought...he could feel the frustration suddenly bubbling up inside the spirit. Link almost hoped it was Ghirahim's emotions he was sensing, because.. Even if he had to suffer the spirit's hurt and anger and frustration.. It was fine, and he was content to know how deeply the sword suffered, too. He was content to watch the spirit unravel.

"You shouldn't sheath your blade Sky Brat," the spirit hissed, his black eyes narrow slits as he watched the Skyloftian boy's will to fight vanish, and he felt it dull into nothing, as though everything were meaningless.

"I have no further need for a sword," Link spoke, his tone as apathetic as it was full of challenge, and he stood there unarmed, reveling in Ghirahim's displeasure. "This one, or you. I have no more reason to fight.. You can thank yourself for that."

"You're forgetting one thing, however," the sword spirit emitted a dangerous kind of laugh as he raised his black sabre to his line of sight, and stroked his fingertips carefully along the blade. As it fell back to his side, his smoldering, black eyes refocused on the fallen Hero that stood defenseless before him, and he glared with deadly intensity, "I can still kill you, myself, if you don't fight back."

The spirit rushed at the younger male, his blade held at the ready to strike; Link could see the intent plain on the spirit's face, he could feel the insult burning deep inside the heart of the deranged weapon, and yet.. There was something hidden, something unseen and difficult to tap into, but it was there..

Link refused to move. He refused to defend himself, and as Ghirahim's blade moved to slash, to cut the boy down, he found instead it was Ghirahim's hand that struck him instead, the spirit's knuckles glancing against Link's cheek, and the Hero toppled back, down to the ground.

Unrelenting, the spirit was upon him, standing over him with the tip of his sword pressed into the tender skin of the Skyloftian boy's neck. But the fire inside the Hero had burned out, though his rosy cheeks stung with the blow and with the tears that escaped as he fought. Now, he was as still as lifeless waters, and just as empty.

He didn't care. He had nothing left to give.

"Kill me then," he beckoned, no fear apparent in him. His starless eyes gazed up into the spirit's own, daring him yet managing to find the endless hesitation beneath his rage. He knew Ghirahim wouldn't do it. He prayed that he did.

"If we have anything in common now," Link began, his voice dull and distant, "it's that neither of us has a purpose anymore, neither of us has a reason to exist any longer.."

"You took away the world I fought for," Ghirahim spoke, his anger fading away, leaving only the sound of regret, and the fondness that had kindled for the boy who had become his consort in conflict, in servitude to their respective covenant, "..and I took away the world you fought for. That makes us even.. Link."

"I won't wield your blade," the boy stubbornly denied, "..so either kill me now.. or don't... either way, you've no Master and no purpose... I may be the one who was banished, but.. You will serve the punishment for your actions. I will see to that much."

Ghirahim, unable to quell his own emotional instability, his behavior ever irrational and unbridled, flung himself from standing to straddling the resistant boy, his lip curling in the rage that erupted within him so the sharp edges of his canines were visible, and his voice darkened to a threatening growl. His hand grappled the Skyloftian by the front of his shirt, and he pulled him up so they were face to face, hardly any space between them, yet Link didn't even flinch.

"Don't think you can do anything to punish me any further!" the sword spirit hissed, "You're nothing but Hylia's mortal filth! I am ageless, and I swear to you, if I have to find you in your next life, that's what I'll do! Do not doubt that, you obstinate brat!"

There was not even a flicker of fear to be found in the broken Hero's countenance and though his tattered emotions refused him any immediate proper response to the spirit's threats, a trickle of something beyond his control slowly took hold, and a quiet titter was emitted from him, which grew into an outright laugh.

At last, it was Ghirahim that found himself confused at the other's shift in emotional state, but he gave the breaking Hero a violent shake as though that would bring him back to his right mind. Or perhaps it was merely an expression of the spirit's frustration; after everything, how could this troublesome brat dare laugh at his threats?

When he was allowed to lay still once more, Link's laughter had vanished and all that remained was the sharp, stubborn stare of his cold, dismal eyes and the faintest upturn at the corner of the boy's cracked, blood-stained lips. "..we both know how you loath to wait, for anything," he growled, in vehement doubt at the solidity of Ghirahim's ridiculous threats, not that it even made any difference any longer.

Another quiet laugh of spite and ridicule softly came from the fallen Hero before he struck like a venomous snake, his arms harshly shoving the sword spirit away from him, his legs kicking violently until the spirit hastily backed away, then both of them climbed hurriedly back to their feet, as though to square off once more, however neither made the move to attack.

"Go ahead and wait for my next life, and come find me then," Link hissed, his eyes narrowed as they flashed with hatred that was razor sharp, "I'm already bound to this fate, to servitude as Hylia's weapon again and again. How could you make that any worse? Go ahead! Find me again and ruin my life again! It's already written, so who am I to try to avoid it? At least by then, you'll be just another terrible thing, but a familiar one, won't you?"

"You've nothing left to threaten me with!" The boy's voice came to a volume it never had before with spoken word. He could never recall, in his life, ever being angry enough to outright yell at any one person, but Ghirahim... he had nothing but anger for him. "There's nothing left that you can take from me! There's nothing more you can do or say to manipulate me! This is where it ends, do you understand that? And any pity I had for you is gone! I thought.. I thought I had begun to understand how you felt, I thought.. Perhaps.. We weren't unlike each other, in some ways. But obviously I was wrong, so completely wrong.. You're nothing but a wretched, self-loathing mistake, and try as you may to disguise how truly pathetic you are with your outward egotism, and your need to make the whole world suffer, I understand now what you really are, and I'm done caring or thinking you can be redeemed!"

As Link finished, he stood panting for breath, his glare still set upon the wretched spirit, who for once, seemed utterly still and silent, the harsh truth of the broken Hero's berating words draining him of his dramatic bravado, and any ability he had to fill the void with decorated verbiage.

"You're right, Sky Child...," he breathed, his voice a suddenly dull, broken sound, "You're right... but you fail to give the proper credit to Her Grace, Hylia," he uttered the name of the Goddess with the kind of cynicism that could only come with complete and total abhorrence, "..for her wonderful work, in intentionally making me like this, and unleashing me upon this world. She did this to you, me, and to all the people I've killed, over a long, long period of time. Her hands are covered in the blood of a people she supposedly loves. If you could only accept that, then perhaps.. In hatred, we could join hands."

"No," came the boy's immediate, vehement refusal. He was bitterly tired of Ghirahim's bullshit. Cutting the spirit off from any further ramblings or redirections of blame, Link spoke up, his voice cold, his words absolute, "Hylia isn't here and she hasn't forced your hand. Your excuses are weak and empty."

Boldly, the shorter male began forward, striding directly toward the sword spirit, unafraid or else simply not caring what became of him. It didn't matter. Ghirahim had no more power. Link had no more fear. He stood as tall as he could, directly in front of the horrid entity, chin raised so he looked the other male in the face, wanting to let Ghirahim see the depth of his seriousness.

"..if you so hate how she made you, you would defy her by changing yourself," the young male spoke, bitterly shaking his head, "..Instead, you turned your hatred on everything else around you."

For a moment, Link peered into the spirit's bleak, fathomless gaze, wondering if there was anything in that unfeeling abyss to see, any reaction at all. He hoped he would see pain. He knew better than to think he would feel any difference; assuming the sword had a heart that could feel or break, Link didn't have the capacity to be hurt any more deeply than he had already.

"But here it is, Ghirahim," Link spoke, placing all the bitterness he could spit up into the sound of the horrid demon's damnable name, "regardless of whether Hylia intended this, I made the choice to save you, and I am responsible for what happened. For that, I will hate myself, not her. It's time for you to start taking responsibility for yourself as well, instead of blaming somebody else, instead of making others suffer for it. It's time for you to hate yourself, for everything you are. Let yourself feel that.."

One bold hand reached up, fingers harsh and without care as Link touched the spirit's cheek, pushing back the hair that fell into his face; the boy wanted to see both of Ghirahim's eyes as he spoke. He didn't care to miss anything, if there was anything there that could be missed. Ghirahim did nothing to move away, or resist.. He didn't even utter a word of complaint.

"That's all you have now," Link bleakly uttered, "That's all you'll ever have."

::

TBC

::


End file.
